


Occlumency

by green_violin_bow



Series: Butterbeer [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Blow Jobs, Controlling Parent-Child Relationship, First Time, Greg and Mycroft are both 18, Hand Jobs, M/M, Potterlock, Potterstrade, and there is a slow journey of sexual discovery happening here, so please heed the tags, the parent-child relationship is really not nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Mycroft and Greg are reaching the end of their time at Hogwarts, forced to hide their relationship due to the Holmes family's activities. It is a precarious balance, and one that it will only get harder to maintain as they leave school and begin work.





	1. Chapter 1

Warmth, and comfort, and the soft cotton of the duvet nestled around his ears; the regular, gentle sound of Gregory breathing, and his arm, heavy and relaxed, around Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft drifts in and out, registering vaguely that _it’s light, there’s sunlight, but there can’t be, because we’re in…we’re in…the Room of Requirement…there’s no…external window…_

Blinking, now, and it’s some time later, he’d drifted off again – but Gregory’s arm is still around him, and Mycroft sighs happily, not really trying to wake. Slowly, though, consciousness steals in, and he blinks again, languorously, enjoying the impossible morning sunshine in their magical sanctuary. Greg shifts a little in his sleep, closer still, and Mycroft silently catches his breath; Gregory is hard, cock rigid in his boxers, pressed against Mycroft’s back.

The familiar fizz of excitement and nerves in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach. Without moving, he observes how his own morning wood fills and hardens still further in response. He can feel himself blush against the pillow, body suddenly warm beneath the covers. Pulse racing, part of his brain says _move, move against him,_ and another part shies away, afraid to show his excitement, his interest in going further. _He wants you._ Mycroft blinks in the morning sunshine. _Well,_ he reasons, _his body has the same natural reaction as any other eighteen-year-old male. It has not necessarily got anything to do with you in particular._

Greg yawns and his arm tightens reflexively around Mycroft’s stomach. “Mmm,” he mumbles sleepily. “You’re here.”

Mycroft can’t help a little huff of amusement. _“You’re_ here,” he counters, smiling into the pillow.

Greg chuckles, voice rough with sleep, and kisses the back of Mycroft's neck. He stretches a little, then clears his throat slightly and shifts his hips away, with a quick, mumbled “sorry.”

“No,” says Mycroft quickly, without thinking. He catches his breath, unsure of himself; suddenly fearful that Greg will take this as an invitation to more, to something – something he cannot yet fully define or understand. “Don’t,” he murmurs.

“Hey,” whispers Greg, propping himself up on his elbow.

Mycroft pushes his face into the pillow and screws his eyes closed, and Greg chuckles, pressing a kiss behind his ear.

“Oi, mister,” whispers Greg. “Stop hiding.”

Mycroft opens one eye just a sliver, and Greg kisses his cheek.

“You still know I’m not pushing for anything, don’t you?” asks Greg, voice gentle.

Mycroft flushes. “Yes,” he mutters, a little impatient. “I –” he gets stuck, and presses his lips together. “I want you to come back,” he whispers. “That doesn’t mean –”

“I know,” murmurs Greg, stroking his chest soothingly. He curls himself carefully around Mycroft again, cock a rigid line against the top of Mycroft’s buttocks and back. He places a kiss between Mycroft’s shoulderblades.

Mycroft’s heart hammers in his chest. He feels hot all over, restless, as though he wants to climb out of his skin. His cock throbs in his trousers.

“I wasn’t –” murmurs Greg. He pauses, then tries again. “I just don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“I know.” Mycroft is breathless with the pace of his heartbeat, and hot with embarrassment. “I –” he swallows hard, “– wish you to know that this is – okay.” He runs his hand along Greg’s arm. “More than – more than okay.”

He feels Greg nod. “Alright.” He hugs Mycroft closer. “Thank you, gorgeous.”

Mycroft gives a tight little shake of the head. “No.”

Greg chuckles and kisses his shoulder. “Listen, I –” he pauses. “About last night.” His voice is soberer than before.

Mycroft turns over onto his back, then all the way, so that he is facing Greg. He nods, and looks up into Greg’s soft brown eyes. “Yes.”

Greg runs his hand slowly up Mycroft’s arm. “You do – get that if all this wasn’t going on with your family –” he pauses, and takes Mycroft’s hand. “You know that I’d want us to be official, right? In front of everyone?”

Mycroft blinks, then fixes his gaze on Greg’s shoulder. “I –” he presses his lips together.

“I sort of got the impression yesterday,” says Greg cautiously, “that you weren’t sure of that.”

Mycroft half-shrugs, cheeks heating still further. “I hurt you this week,” he whispers. “Once everyone came back – what you said about misjudging you was true,” he adds miserably. “I hope you can understand that it was I, rather than you, who was responsible for that belief.” He takes a deep breath. “I wish to apologise again, Gregory.”

Greg pushes their foreheads together and shakes his head, gently. He seems about to speak for a moment, then stops, and smiles. “You’re a right idiot, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow in mock indignation, but relief is flowing through his veins. “Were it possible, I would want to be ‘official’ with you too.”

Greg’s eyes are soft, deep brown in the morning sunshine. “We can be official. Just not public. Morning, official boyfriend,” he smiles, squeezing Mycroft’s hand.

Tentatively, gaze flickering between Greg’s eyes and lips, Mycroft inches forward for a kiss, a chaste press of lips.

Greg hums satisfaction into the kiss. “’M going to do my teeth,” he smiles. “So I can kiss you properly.” He clambers out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom.

Mycroft watches him go, trying not to be obvious about staring at his bum in the charcoal-grey boxers. Once Greg has closed the door, he rolls onto his back and pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes, attempting to parse his feelings. Heart ready to burst, his pulse thrums with _I want – I want –_

All too soon, Greg is back, rolling into bed as Mycroft rolls out, a mock-grumpy growl as Mycroft evades his welcoming arms. “Hurry up,” grumbles Greg, and Mycroft can hear the smile in his voice.

Closing the bathroom door behind himself, Mycroft looks around; there’s a generous corner shower, and toothbrushes and toothpaste on the sink. He brushes his teeth and tries to sort out his hair somewhat as he waits for his morning erection to subside, then uses the loo. He splashes his face with cold water and takes a couple of deep breaths.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Greg smiles softly at him from the bed. He’s wrapped in the duvet, ash-silver hair bright in the morning sunshine. “I just realised this sunshine can’t be real,” he grins. “Took me ages.”

Mycroft smiles. “I suppose it is as real as the rest of the Room,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “In its way. You created a window.”

“’S’nice to get some morning light, for once,” murmurs Greg, fingertips playing softly down the line of Mycroft’s spine. “Seems like months since it was light, waking up.” Perhaps there’s a quick catch in his voice as he realises that Mycroft is slipping his trousers off, but his hand is as steady and gentle as ever, caressing Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft, terribly self-conscious now that he has stripped down to just his boxers, rolls quickly under the duvet.

Greg welcomes him back with a tangle of warm limbs. “Hi gorgeous.” He pushes Mycroft gently back onto the pillow and kisses him.

Mycroft runs the tip of his tongue over Gregory’s bottom lip, which he has learned never fails to elicit a quick hitch of breath, a closer press, a nip of teeth. Greg smiles and starts to plant a blurred trail of kisses from the corner of Mycroft’s mouth to his ear. “Missed you so much,” he whispers.

“And I you, Gregory.” The urge to press skin to skin is overwhelming; Mycroft rolls on his side and winds his arms around Greg, sighing with satisfaction as their chests meet. He nuzzles his lips into the dip at the base of Greg’s neck, and – without thinking about it, really – gives an experimental little lick.

Greg gives a tiny start at the sensation, then chuckles into Mycroft’s ear. “What are you up to?”

Solemnly, Mycroft pushes him onto his back. Blinking, he looks at him through his eyelashes. “Exploring?” he says, tentatively. “If that’s…” he bites his lip.

“’Course,” Greg nods, and Mycroft can tell that it’s an effort for him to keep his voice light.

Mycroft’s heart seems to skip a beat, squeezing tight in his chest. “You are – sure?”

Greg smiles gently, reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss. “Idiot,” he says, fondly, then drops his hands to the bed again, at his sides.

The duvet lies across his hips, but his chest and stomach are bathed in morning light. Tentatively, Mycroft places a hand in the centre of Greg’s chest, long fingers spread wide. He can’t help a small smile.

“What?” grins Greg.

Mycroft’s smile tips ruefully lopsided. “The difference in the shades of our skin,” he says, with a self-deprecating, amused huff. “You are positively tanned compared to me.”

Greg grins and rolls towards him, seeking a kiss. “You _are_  basically see-through,” he grins, tangling his fingers in Mycroft’s red hair. He laughs and yelps as Mycroft deliberately bites his bottom lip, harder than usual. “Ow!”

Mycroft places his hand in the centre of Greg’s chest again, and pushes him down flat on his back, then smoothes both his hands back onto the sheets.

Greg smiles. “Sorry.”

Mycroft flashes him a mock-reproving look through his eyelashes, and rolls fully onto his front, trying to ignore how his erection is now trapped between his stomach and the mattress. He places a kiss on Greg’s shoulder, then brushes his lips softly along his collarbone.

There are a couple of tiny freckles on Greg’s chest that he runs his lips to next, and he wants to taste them, so he does. He lets his long fingers trail gently over Greg’s stomach, and Greg giggles breathlessly.

Mycroft flicks a glance up at him. He’s flushed, and giggly, and squirming slightly at the feather-touches of Mycroft’s fingertips. Mycroft can’t help smiling.

Greg grins. “Torturer.” His voice is soft. A little more soberly, he adds, “you’re doing it again.”

Mycroft lifts his hand, heart turning with a quick _thump._

“Nothing bad,” says Greg, quickly. “You just look like you’re learning me again.” There’s a hesitation, and Greg adds, “come back,” pleadingly.

Cautiously, Mycroft places his hand back on Greg’s stomach.

“I _want_ to learn you,” he murmurs, and his heart jumps.

Greg smiles softly. “You are ridiculous.”

“I find this allegation scurrilous, since you are in fact the ridiculous one.” Mycroft runs his hand over the golden skin of Greg’s stomach, and bends to kiss his arm.

“Also you have a ridiculous vocabulary.”

“My sincere apologies that my erudition is so perturbing to you, _Grégoire.”_

Greg snorts a giggle. “Not ‘perturbing’. Just sexy.”

Mycroft flushes and curls close to Greg, burying his face on his shoulder. “You are odd,” he mumbles, lips brushing Greg’s collarbone.

Greg shivers, and winds an arm around Mycroft’s waist. “I’m not odd,” he murmurs, eyes deep brown as he turns onto his side to face Mycroft. “Finding you gorgeous is probably the most logical thing I’ve ever done.”

Mycroft makes a doubtful little _hmm,_ then raises an eyebrow when he finds Greg’s finger pressed across his lips.

Greg grins. “Don’t make mean noises about yourself and expect me not to shush you, Myc.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrow further and tries to bite at Greg’s finger.

Greg giggles and hisses with surprise, grabbing both Mycroft’s hands and playfully pushing him back against the mattress. He buries his face in Mycroft’s neck and kisses, then nips at the soft skin. Mycroft squirms, testing the strength of Greg’s grip on his hands. He isn’t really being held down, but he’s hard against Greg’s hip, hot and embarrassed and wanting, but unsure what to – whether to –

Involuntarily, he gives a little moan as Greg kisses him, tongue teasing Mycroft’s bottom lip, slipping inside –

Mycroft’s hips jerk a little, and he feels Greg’s breath catch, the quickly-controlled groan in his throat, the nip of teeth on Mycroft’s bottom lip.

Breathing hard, Greg pushes slightly away from Mycroft, letting go of his hands, eyes wide. “Sorry –” he mumbles, “’m not –”

Mycroft cannot bear to lose touch with Greg’s skin. Without making the conscious decision to do so, he rolls closer, palms skimming the soft ash-downed skin of his forearms –

Greg stops him with a gentle hand in the centre of his chest. “We should –” he swallows quickly, gestures with his left hand. “Showers – library maybe…you must be starving…”

And the realisation is there, clear in Mycroft’s mind: _he wants me, and he’s trying to stop, because – because he thinks _–__  and he wants to let Greg _know_  that he needs him too, that he wants – he wants –

“I –” he murmurs awkwardly, and his heart is hammering, so hard he can barely sort out how to breathe. He reaches out, runs his fingers down Greg’s spine.

Greg shivers at the touch, biting his bottom lip.

“Stay here,” whispers Mycroft, watching Greg through his eyelashes. He can’t find the words, lips stoppered with need and embarrassment, but he shuffles closer, pressing himself along Greg’s side, foot tangling between Greg’s legs, arm winding around his waist, across his back.

Greg gives a breathless whine, low in his throat, pushing their foreheads together. “’Course,” he mumbles, eyes falling closed as Mycroft shifts them into a slow, intense kiss.

Mycroft pushes gently at Greg’s shoulder, trying to get him to turn on his side. Greg resists for a few moments, nipping at Mycroft’s bottom lip within the kiss, then pulls back.

“Maybe we should –” he mumbles, but Mycroft kisses him again, and this time when Mycroft pushes him, he turns.

Mycroft shuffles closer, fingers playing slowly up Greg’s side. He kisses Greg again, slow and soft, then begins to place kisses on his chin, his jaw, moving lower to brush them across the soft skin of his neck. When Mycroft moves a couple of inches closer, Greg gasps and jerks his hips back, putting his hand up to cup Mycroft’s cheek.

“Myc,” he whispers, voice tight. “Let’s get ready and go, hmm?”

Mycroft blinks, blush spreading slowly across his cheeks. _It’s not that he doesn’t want to rush you – it’s that he doesn’t want you._ He nods, with a quick flicking lift at the corner of his mouth. _Who would want to sleep with you, anyway? And now you’re pushing him._

Greg is watching him with wide brown eyes. “Myc…” he says gently, then stops, the crease of a frown between his brows.

Mycroft starts to pull away, drawing his feet from between Greg’s legs.

Greg caresses his cheek. “Hey, mister –” he bites his lip, then says more urgently, “Mycroft. Hey. Tell me what’s going on. Something’s wrong.”

Mycroft shakes his head, but Greg runs his hand down to his waist and stops him from moving away. “Please,” he says gently, and his eyes are soft.

Mycroft can feel himself flush, and his heart is beating so hard he cannot find the breath to speak. How to explain, without making Greg feel guilty for not wanting this with him? “I –” he sighs, staring fixedly at Greg’s collarbone. Tucking his hands in loose fists next to his chest, he pulls his knees up, defensive. “I was pushing,” he mumbles shamefacedly. “I apologise.”

“Pushing?” Greg looks baffled, eyes searching Mycroft’s face for understanding. Mycroft feels himself blush harder, and drops his gaze.

Suddenly, Greg shifts a little, next to him on the bed. “Myc,” he murmurs gently. “D’you mean – Merlin, I –” he sounds slightly dazed. Taking both Mycroft’s hands in his own, he kisses the knuckles, then takes a deep breath. “Are you talking about – going further? Than we have?”

Mycroft can’t look up. Finally, he nods his head, a whisper of cotton against the pillow. Greg doesn’t say anything. _Working out how to let you down gently._

“And you – want that?” asks Greg, cautiously.

Mycroft takes a sudden breath in, biting back a spiky, obnoxious _obviously._ Again, he jerks his head in a tiny movement against the pillow, hot shame curling in his stomach at the mismatch in their desires. He wants to hide.

Greg brushes his lips softly over Mycroft’s knuckles again. “Myc, you know that’s something I want too?” he asks, gently. “Don’t you?” There’s a long moment of silence. “A _lot,”_  he adds into the hush, and Mycroft can hear the lopsided smile in his voice.

Mycroft looks up, cautiously, through his eyelashes, and there’s a flush on Greg’s cheeks that makes him want to press his lips against the heated skin.

“Don’t get annoyed at me,” says Greg, “but this is – you _really_ want to, right? With me?”

And now Mycroft cannot help it – his gaze snaps up, and he raises an eyebrow. “Gregory. Who else?”

Greg rolls his eyes and grins. “You know what I mean.”

Mycroft pushes his forehead against Greg’s. “I am –” he hesitates, “– apprehensive.” His gaze collides with Greg’s, then flicks away again. “But I want – this. With you.”

Greg takes a quick breath, then nods gently against Mycroft’s forehead. “There’s no rush,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t have to be now.”

Mycroft fixes him with a look, and Greg gives a sudden chuckle, eyes crinkling. Mycroft uncurls from his defensive position, and watches Greg for permission or denial as he shuffles closer, both on their sides, just an inch of charged space between them.

Greg smiles, and runs his right arm under the pillow beneath their heads. He lets his left hand sweep up to caress Mycroft’s hair, down his neck, over his shoulderblade, to settle in the small of his back. “C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes dark.

“I am here,” whispers Mycroft, and his chest feels so full that he’s not sure how to breathe.

“More here,” smiles Greg. His hand is soft pressure at Mycroft’s back, and they roll together, skin to skin from head to toe, only underwear between them.

Greg gasps softly against Mycroft’s cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You –”

But he gets no further, because Mycroft _needs,_ he needs Greg with more certainty and fire and sheer _desperation_ than he’s ever felt, and he kisses him, hard, biting at his bottom lip.

He presses closer, as close as he can get, and the feeling of Greg’s cock pressed alongside his own, between them –

Mycroft is hot, shivery, unsure but needing –

And Greg softens the kiss, burying his hand in Mycroft’s hair, pulling back a little and pushing their foreheads together. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brown eyes soft and wide. “Are you _sure,_  Myc?”

There’s a little growl in the back of Mycroft’s throat as he grits out, “Gregory…”

Greg smiles, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just –”

Mycroft kisses him again, and Greg huffs a little laugh into the kiss, but his hand flows down over Mycroft’s side all the same, to his hip, and the feeling of being held, just there, as they lie together hard and needing is…is…

“Can I touch you?” asks Mycroft, and he's so breathless his voice hardly sounds like his own.

Greg blinks, long and slow, and his expression, trying to keep control, is one of the most beautiful things Mycroft has ever seen. Greg clears his throat slightly. “’Course,” he whispers roughly. “’F’you want to.”

Redundant though the reassurance is, Mycroft murmurs, “I do,” against Greg’s lips as he runs his hand to Greg’s hip, to the waistband of his boxers. The novelty, the nerves, the fear of doing something wrong tip vertiginously on every side; but he _wants_ – and he is shivery, feverish with the need to touch.

Gently, he slips his fingertips under the waistband of Greg’s boxers and starts to push them down; Greg wriggles his hips and helps, and Mycroft blushes, eyes wide, not wanting to be caught staring. _Do not be ridiculous, he knows you want to look at him, or at least he knows you want to touch him, surely he has extrapolated from_ –

“You too,” murmurs Greg, fingers at the waistband of Mycroft’s boxer briefs. His voice is half-questioning, half-pleading. Mycroft’s heart clenches and he isn’t sure – but in a way he is, too, and he lifts his hips as Greg slips the garment slowly down. As they kiss, the silk-smooth-hard sensation of Greg’s cock against his own makes his stomach twist and dissolve.

His hand, chastely high on Greg’s back, feels frozen in place. He wants to slide it down, but the confidence to do so has deserted him. The newness, the trust, the _danger_ of this is overwhelming.

Greg catches his breath and pulls out of the kiss; he pushes their foreheads together. “You okay, yeah?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Greg giggles, nuzzling the side of Mycroft’s face, then biting his earlobe.

“Alright, alright, no need to be a sarky git.” He places a kiss on Mycroft’s jaw. “I’ve got to be honest,” he smiles, and the grin in his voice loosens the knot of nerves in Mycroft’s stomach a little. “I’ve got no idea how long I’ll be able to last if you _do_  touch me.”

Mycroft can’t help huffing a laugh, and it’s such a relief to be able to look into Greg’s crinkled brown eyes and smile together.

“I can only imagine my own reactions will be embarrassingly rapid,” he says, eyes cast down.

Greg chuckles and curls into him, pressing close, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. “I love your skin,” he murmurs, kissing Mycroft’s neck, his collarbone and shoulder.

“Even though I’m transparent?”

Greg laughs and bites Mycroft’s shoulder, examining the tooth marks he leaves behind. Mycroft bites his neck in retaliation.

“Knew you were a vampire. Tall, pale, skinny, looks dangerously good in suits.”

“You started the biting.”

Greg nuzzles his neck and pushes closer, and Mycroft can’t help the little hitch of his hips.

Pleasure, arousal, lances sharp and hot down his spine; he whimpers slightly, clamping down on the sound immediately, slamming his eyes closed as he feels himself start to blush.

Greg makes a soft, desperate sound. His hands find Mycroft’s face. “Myc – _Myc,”_ he whispers urgently. “Don’t be – don’t get embarrassed –” He places a kiss softly on Mycroft’s lips. “Look at me?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Mycroft opens his eyes. Greg’s wide, brown eyes are so close; his flushed, feverish-looking cheeks betray his arousal and embarrassment.

“Myc,” he murmurs. “You know I want you so much?”

Head between Greg’s hands, Mycroft gives a quick, reluctant nod.

“I – I don’t want you to feel like there’s something – that I’m judging you or expecting something or –” Greg half-shakes his head in exasperation at himself. “’M’not saying it right, but – but whatever you want, anything is good, even if it’s nothing, and I just – what would be best? What would you like? I want this to be – right. For you.”

Mycroft keeps his gaze fixed on Greg’s chin. “I –” he freezes with embarrassment, then rolls his eyes at himself. “Ridiculous,” he snaps.

“Argh,” laughs Greg, kissing the corner of his mouth and huffing a quick laugh. “Mycroft… _you’re_ not allowed to be embarrassed. _You’re_ not the one who made the Room provide about fourteen kinds of lube.”

Mycroft can’t help a little snort of amusement, and he looks up into Greg’s eyes, crinkled and brown and soft and _kind._ “I –” he takes a deep breath. “Show me how to touch you.”

Greg’s eyebrows rise, quickly, and he pulls in a breath. “’Course. If that’s what you really want.”

Mycroft nods. “Please.”

There’s a long silent moment, and then Greg rolls gently away, onto his back. The duvet shifts on his hips, and on Mycroft’s.

With a silent, brave breath in, Mycroft pushes the duvet away down the bed. They look at one another. Slowly, Mycroft runs his hand over Greg’s stomach, heart pounding, cheeks red.

Greg covers his hand with his own, winding their fingers together, and looks directly into Mycroft’s eyes, for permission. Slowly, Greg guides their joined hands onto his hard, straining cock.

 _Familiar, different, and_ – Mycroft’s stomach flips. He has the sudden urge to grin. He leans in and kisses Greg, moving closer to him, along his side. He slips his own leg between Greg’s, and wraps his long fingers around Greg’s length. Thicker than his own, hot and hard and silky at the head, and Greg gasps into the kiss –

“Myc –” Greg’s voice is wrecked, breathy and needy –

Mycroft teases his fingertips down the length of Greg’s cock, exploring, and he pulls out of the kiss so that he can observe Greg’s reactions as he touches.

Greg, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, watches him – watches Mycroft’s slender fingers and his absorbed expression –

“Fuck,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back onto the mattress, “you’re _learning_ this, aren’t you?” and there’s an edge of humour in his voice, but not derision, and Mycroft smiles.

“Of course.” He notes Greg’s hitch of breath as he tightens his hand a little. “Would you expect anything else?”

“Mmmm,” moans Greg distractedly, burying his left hand in his ash-silver hair. “Should’ve known.” He bites his bottom lip and puts his hand over Mycroft’s, stilling its movement. “Give me – a minute,” he pants. “Sorry,” he adds, with a bashful, lopsided grin.

Mycroft shakes his head very slightly, and Greg rolls onto his side. “Can I –?” he asks breathlessly, hand skimming softly over Mycroft’s hip.

Slowly, Mycroft nods.

Gasping, Mycroft's eyelids slam closed as Greg brushes his fingers along his erection. He presses his lips together.

Greg pushes their foreheads together. “Okay?”

Mycroft nods, once, pressing against him. “Gregory…” he sighs. He can’t keep his breathing under control.

“’S’okay,” murmurs Greg. “Everything is okay. Anything.” He kisses Mycroft’s nose. “Open your eyes?”

The shocking intimacy of looking at Greg as he touches him makes Mycroft catch his breath.

He reaches for Greg's cock again, and the angle is a little awkward, arms and hands close between their bodies, but the groan Greg gives as Mycroft wraps his hand around him is unparalleled.

Buoyed with the confidence of that unfeigned sound, Mycroft smiles and kisses Greg's collarbone, running his tongue to the base of his neck. His hips buck as Greg pulls his cock in one long, smooth stroke; he hesitates for a second, then does the same to Greg.

Greg takes a gulp of air, and leans in to kiss Mycroft.

Their breaths come in soft gasps between them. Mycroft watches Greg's eyes. Sensation building steadily as Greg touches him, Mycroft can feel orgasm threatening. “Stop,” he pants desperately, and Greg takes his hand away immediately, eyes wide.

“Okay, gorgeous?”

Mycroft huffs a wry sound of amusement. He nods. “Too okay.”

Greg grins. “Tell me about it.”

Mycroft flushes pink, and buries his face in Greg's shoulder. His heart races. Everything seems unreal, somehow.

Greg buries his hand in Mycroft's hair, stroking gently, pulling him up into a kiss which intensifies quickly. He pushes Mycroft down onto the pillow, and hooks his leg over both of Mycroft’s. His hand slides smoothly down over Mycroft’s chest and stomach, until it wraps around his cock again.

Mycroft closes his eyes and presses his lips together, trying to suppress a needy gasp and a hitch of his hips.

Greg smiles against his neck and kisses his earlobe. “I love touching you,” he whispers into Mycroft’s ear. “You look so good. And you feel so good. God, Myc…” his voice trails off, and he nuzzles his lips against Mycroft’s jaw.

Mycroft is struggling to keep control, breath tight and uneven, chest heaving. Greg’s hand strokes him slowly, smoothly, and Mycroft is afraid that –

“Open your eyes,” murmurs Greg in his ear. “I want to watch you. Please.”

Mycroft flutters his eyes open, to find Greg’s brown gaze, dark with arousal, fixed on him. His stomach flips. “Gregory,” he murmurs. His voice does not sound like his own, broken and breathless. “You must stop. I shall – I cannot –”

Greg bites his lip. His hand slows and his grip loosens, but he does not stop. “I – I want that,” he says softly. “I want to make you come. If you’ll let me.”

Mycroft almost whines with need, with nerves and arousal and desperation. “But you –”

“Later,” whispers Greg, kissing the side of Mycroft’s mouth. “You first, gorgeous.”

Greg swirls his palm over the head of Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft chokes back a groan. He feels a hot flash of shame for the generous amount of precome Greg finds and uses to slick his shaft, but Greg hums his appreciation and presses kisses along Mycroft’s jaw.

“Put your hand over mine?” he asks softly, lips brushing Mycroft’s feverishly hot cheek. “I want to get it right.”

Mycroft half-laughs as he tentatively slips his long fingers over Greg’s. “I am not sure you could get it wrong at this point, Gregory,” he murmurs.

Greg grins and leans in to kiss him, parting Mycroft’s lips with his tongue. Mycroft feels almost as though he is floating as he tightens his hand around Greg’s on his cock. He can feel the rigid line of Greg’s prick hard against his hip, straining with need.

Greg chuckles softly and takes Mycroft’s earlobe delicately between his teeth, nipping and sucking on it. Mycroft catches his breath in a gasp, and Greg tightens his hand a little around his cock, still pulling in long, luxurious strokes.

Pleasure coils hot and tight at the base of Mycroft’s spine. His hand over Greg’s makes him feel as though he has been caught masturbating, and is now being watched. A delicate thread of shame runs bright through his arousal, but he cannot help guiding Greg in short, light strokes to the head of his cock.

His body is desperate for release, now, and he watches Greg’s beautiful, intent expression with wide eyes, biting back a moan as he feels Greg harden still further against his hip.

“Gregory,” he groans out. “Gregory – I cannot – I am going to –”

Greg’s eyes snap to his. “Yes, Mycroft,” he whispers. “Come for me.”

And Mycroft can hold back no longer. He arches off the bed as he starts to come, biting his bottom lip to stop the desperate moan that tries to escape him. Eyelids flying shut, he is only aware of the relentless movement of Greg’s hand, coaxing him, pushing him further into pleasure –

And as he starts to come back to himself, Greg’s lips are soft against his neck, his jaw, a chain of tiny kisses over hot, flushed skin –

Cautiously, he opens his eyes, embarrassment already burning in his stomach, his chest. He glances down at the mess he’s made and bites his lip, glancing up to Greg. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Dear God, Mycroft,” says Greg breathlessly, half-laughing. “Don’t you _dare_ apologise to me.” He pulls Mycroft onto his side and presses their skin together, head to toe, his hard length and Mycroft’s come between them. He takes Mycroft’s lips in a fierce kiss. “Don’t you dare,” he mutters again, into Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft slips his hand between their bodies, and wraps his fingers around Greg’s straining cock. “Let me,” he murmurs. “I want to.”

“Oh, God,” breathes Greg, and his eyelids are heavy. He presses his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Please,” he groans.

Mycroft’s stomach flips at the shredded sound of Greg’s voice. He pulls Greg in the long, smooth strokes he had favoured to touch Mycroft to start with. Worried though he is that he might do something wrong, there’s a never-before-felt bubble of confidence swelling in Mycroft’s chest. Gregory had touched him, had made him come, had seen the mess and the embarrassment and the noises and _still wants him,_ is hard for him, breath coming in gasps as Mycroft touches him, eyes wide and dark and desperate –

“Is this what you like?” murmurs Mycroft. It’s easier to talk, now, when he _knows_ beyond all doubt that Greg wants him.

Greg nods, pressing their foreheads together. He seems beyond coherent speech. “So – good –” he whispers.

The angle is a little awkward. “Lie back,” murmurs Mycroft, meeting Greg’s gaze.

Hurriedly, Greg settles himself back onto the pillow. Mycroft curls along his side, long fingers still wrapped around the base of Greg’s cock. “Show me,” he whispers into Greg’s ear.

“Fuck,” mouths Greg, looking up into grey eyes as he covers Mycroft’s hand with his own. His hips stutter as he obviously fights the urge to push up into tightness.

Mycroft looks down at him wonderingly. Tousled silver hair, pink cheeks, bitten red lips – he dips his head for another hard kiss, and slowly begins to move his hand along Greg’s length again. Greg groans into the kiss.

Greg’s strong fingers guide him, tightening Mycroft’s grip, and pulling in a fast, unrelenting rhythm. Greg’s stomach muscles tense, and Mycroft buries his lips against the soft skin of his neck, kissing and biting gently. “Oh God, Mycroft,” murmurs Greg. “Oh God – that’s – I’m going to –”

“Yes,” whispers Mycroft, against his skin. He’s getting hard again as he watches, knowing that Greg is so close to coming, that it’s his hand pushing him over the edge. “Yes, Gregory,” he says again, and he cannot believe how much bigger and harder Greg feels in his hand, somehow, but then he feels it – the moment where Greg can hold back no longer, and his cock starts to spurt as he groans Mycroft’s name –

Mycroft watches, spellbound, as Greg arches and thrusts his hips, shooting come over his chest and stomach, over their joined hands. He notes what Greg likes – to be pulled through it, long strokes, progressively gentler. Eventually, he wraps his arms around Greg’s stomach and holds him in the soft morning sunlight, kissing his neck. He’s hard against Greg’s thigh, but without any sense of urgency or need. His chest feels tight and full.

Finally, Greg opens his eyes and turns his head on the pillow. “Myc,” he murmurs, dark eyes wide and soft. “That was incredible.”

Mycroft can’t keep a touch of pride out of his grin. “As it was for me, Gregory.”

“Mmm,” smiles Greg, shifting his leg very gently against Mycroft’s erection. “I can tell.”

Mycroft blushes and drops his gaze. Greg makes a repentant sound and turns on his side, pulling Mycroft against him, hand on his cheek. “Oi. I wasn’t taking the piss,” he says, kissing Mycroft fiercely. “You are unbelievably fucking hot, Mycroft Holmes. Stop being embarrassed about wanting me. I’m really, really glad you do.”

Mycroft, at a loss for what to say, returns the kiss.

“When did you last eat?” asks Greg, looking at him thoughtfully. “Because I didn’t see you at lunch yesterday, and I know you didn’t have dinner.”

Mycroft looks fixedly at Greg’s shoulder, and bites his bottom lip.

“I knew it,” groans Greg. “It was breakfast yesterday, wasn’t it?”

Looking up through his eyelashes, Mycroft nods.

“Don’t give me puppydog eyes,” says Greg, pushing his forehead against Mycroft’s. “That’s ridiculous. I’m cross with you.”

“You are not,” says Mycroft, nuzzling his nose against Greg’s cheek. “Not really.”

Greg huffs a quick laugh. “Yeah, well, I am and I’m not, Mycroft Holmes. You may have just made me feel incredibly good, but you _have_ to take care of yourself. And it makes me sad when you don’t.” His eyes are wide and serious as he deliberately seeks out Mycroft’s gaze. “To tell the truth,” he says reluctantly, “I’ve been a bit off my food as well this week, missing you. But you are _not_ allowed to starve yourself. I hate it.”

Slowly, cheeks red, Mycroft gives one terse nod. He avoids Greg’s eyes. “Okay,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” whispers Greg, kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Sorry to be mean.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “You are not.”

“Let’s have showers,” murmurs Greg. “Then you have to eat a really good lunch.”

“Before the library.”

Greg sighs long-sufferingly. “Yes, Head Boy.”

Mycroft pokes him in the stomach, and Greg giggles. “Oi!”

Mycroft rolls away, making it into the bathroom before Greg can retaliate. When he emerges, clean and with a towel wrapped around his hips, Greg grins at him from the bed. “You look so good.”

Mycroft drops his eyes and half-shakes his head. “I could come back to bed,” he says, looking up at Greg through his eyelashes.

“Distracting me with sex,” grins Greg, rolling off the bed and kissing Mycroft’s shoulder on his way past. “Devious bloody Slytherin.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Gregory, if you continue telling Loxias to – and I quote – ‘get fucked’ for me, people will realise what is going on,” murmurs Mycroft, weighing out powdered bat wing.

Greg snorts quietly. “It’s not like it’s just me, Mycroft,” he whispers. “Everyone wants to tell Loxias to get fucked. I’m just living the dream.” He leans in, under pretence of stirring their cauldron. “Also, it’s hot when you swear. Say it again.”

He grins when Mycroft kicks him gently in the shin. “Fuck. Too much bat wing,” murmurs Mycroft, enunciating the ‘k’ with precision.

Greg places his foot alongside Mycroft’s. __“_ Merlin,” _he whispers. “Only one more day to get through.”

“You have a Quidditch match, Gregory,” breathes Mycroft primly. “You will hardly be thinking about the Room of Requirement.”

“I bloody will be,” mutters Greg. “We’ll probably lose because I want to get you alone. A _week,_  Mycroft.”

“I _know_  how long it has been, believe me.” Mycroft sighs. “Here is the wing. I shall weigh out the scales while you stir.”

*

The crowd roars as the players take off. Mycroft holds himself carefully aloof from the others around him in the Slytherin stands, not wishing to be jostled or touched. He feels stretched thin with the effort of remaining impassive, with the need to be alone with Gregory, to finally drop the pretence and melt into his embrace.

First match of the term, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Just this game, just dinner, just whatever celebration or commiseration Greg will have to go through before they can get to the Room, at last, after another week of sleeping apart. Mycroft feels split, halved, spread through the week, and he tries not to examine that feeling too closely.

He cannot help the way his gaze follows the bright ash-silver of Greg’s hair as the game gets under way.

Clara Shah is commentating, able to remain relatively impartial, since Hufflepuff are not playing today. Mycroft pulls his robes more closely around himself in the cold of the March afternoon, glad of his gloves and house scarf.

“Bit of a wobble for the youngest Gryffindor Chaser there, Watson, nearly off after Enoch of Ravenclaw speeds past – a sighting of the Snitch, perhaps? Either way, he doesn’t seem too excited any more, so the pesky little golden blighter must’ve disappeared –”

Mycroft tries to stop noticing how _good_  Greg looks as he dives past the stands, lean and toned and totally focused, full of purpose. That single-minded absorption is unbearably, desperately attractive. He crosses his feet under the bench, and bites his bottom lip.

_At least this will be further good practice in keeping my expression neutral._

When Gryffindor win, Mycroft could swear that Greg’s irrepressible grin from the ground is all for him.

*

“Mycroft!” yells Jen, waving to him from across the common room. “Come and give me a proper game of chess!” she’s flushed, dark brown eyes sparkling with Butterbeer and the success of the Quidditch team. In Gryffindor Tower a rowdy feast is under way, courtesy of the house elves and some seventh-years who flew down to the pub for supplies.

Across the room, Greg is chatting to Lara Urquart. His eyes lock with Mycroft’s, and he runs his hand through his bright silver hair, lopsided grin growing. Neither of them looks away.

“Oi,” grumbles Jen. “Stop staring at Greg and concentrate.”

Mycroft quickly cuts his eyes to her, and adopts what he hopes is a casual demeanour. He raises an eyebrow and viciously removes one of her rooks from the board. The game seems particularly violent. _Gregory certainly would not like this._

“D’you need a Butterbeer?” asks Jen, retaliating to sweep away one of the last of Mycroft’s pawns.

“No thank you,” he says calmly. In the armchairs by the fire, John Watson is being plied with sweets and generally made a fuss of, after scoring the final goal that gave the advantage firmly to Gryffindor. Sherlock is pretending not to care about any of it, but casting the kind of glances at John that Mycroft can now recognise all too well.

“Listen, Mycroft,” says Jen quietly, leaning forward across the chessboard. “If you and Greg aren't shagging yet, you should be.”

Mycroft chokes slightly on air and looks up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She grins. “Only time I've had your attention all evening! I know you can beat me at chess using just the tiniest corner of your brain, but _Merlin,_  I've never seen such intense eye-fucking in my life.”

Mycroft stares at her, trying for cold and aloof. “I am afraid I have no idea to what you are referring.”

She snorts a laugh. “Come off it. Either this is the most tragically repressed friendship I've ever seen, or you two are shagging.”

Mycroft glances around, trying to work out if anyone has heard.

“’S’alright,” she says. “I'm not going to tell anyone. But you might want to dial down the smouldering eye contact about four thousand notches if you don't want people to pick up on it.”

Mycroft looks at her, at a loss for words. She laughs and checkmates him easily.

“That was tactical,” he says, a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Got to use anything I can with you, Holmes,” she grins. She leans across the board again. “I meant what I said. I'm not going to tell anyone. By the way, Greg's staring at you like he wants you to follow him. It's unbelievably obvious.”

Mycroft sighs and gets up. “Goodnight, Jen.”

“Have a good time,” she smiles, picking up her Butterbeer.

*

“I lost the game of chess, thanks to you,” says Mycroft, as he joins Greg in the Room of Requirement.

“What? How?” asks Greg. He reaches out for Mycroft, but Mycroft does not yet melt into his arms.

“Jen. She is aware of our – of this.”

“What?” Greg's tone is alarmed now.

“We are being…unsubtle in the way we look at one another, apparently.”

“Oh, shit. What, really?”

“She used the words ‘intense eye-fucking’.”

Greg snorts a laugh and puts his hands over his eyes. He groans. “Oh bollocks. Shit.” He scrubs his hands up and through his hair. “I can't even concentrate on this whole – thing – because I fucking...want you. So fucking much.”

“I know.” Mycroft can't hold back any more. He steps up close to Greg, taking a kiss, then another, deepening as they wrap their arms around each other.

“A week,” mumbles Greg, into the kiss.

“I know.”

“Fucking…six awful fucking...nights…”

“I know.”

“I need to take a shower. Stinky. Quidditch.”

“I do not care.” Mycroft pulls at Greg's Quidditch robes, fingers unsteady on the buttons. “This colour is appalling,” he murmurs, kissing Greg's ear. “And yet you look as stunning as ever.”

Greg chuckles. “Why are you so nice to me, eh?” he says, burying his face in Mycroft's neck.

“Gregory,” whispers Mycroft, wrapping his arms around the other boy's waist. “I never say anything to you that I do not mean.”

“I know,” mumbles Greg against his neck. “’S’terrifying.”

Mycroft frowns and pulls back slightly. He is not sure what to say.

Greg pushes up on tiptoes and looks directly into his eyes. “Terrifying in a good way,” he says. “Promise. But I still don't know why sometimes – why _me.”_

Mycroft flushes and looks down at the floor. His heart feels raw.

Greg groans. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” he whispers, putting both hands on Mycroft's face. “I'm an idiot.”

“Far from it,” whispers Mycroft, still not making eye contact. “I –” he bites his lip. “Is everything –?” _Have I done something incorrect? What is happening?_

Greg, eyes soft, kisses the corner of his mouth. “I'm sorry,” he says again. “Everything’s great. At last. Now we're here.”

Mycroft nods, tentatively.

Greg's hands wind into his. “Come and shower with me?” he asks, and his tone is casual, but Mycroft can hear the caution behind it all the same. A first: not something they have done before, in the few nights they have been able to spend together since term began.

Mycroft's heart seems to roll in his chest. He is used to being naked in bed with Greg by now, but this – it feels more daunting, somehow, more exposed.

He blinks, and slips his hands back to the buttons of Greg’s Quidditch robes. He nods, once. “Yes,” he murmurs.

Greg smiles, softly, and pulls him backwards towards the bathroom. “Sorry,” he whispers again, deliberately seeking eye contact.

Mycroft halts Greg's progress. He bites his lip. The squirming sense of worry and _wrongness_ has not left him. “Gregory...what is it?”

Greg shakes his head. “’M’not…” he sighs. “There's nothing –” he looks exasperated with himself. “I think I've made you think I'm unhappy with you, or us, or something, but –” he steps close and puts both hands on Mycroft's face. “Myc. This is perfect. Here with you. Always. I just wish we could – once a week, if that – it's…” he shrugs, rather sheepishly. “Sorry. It's so stupid.”

Mycroft looks at him, perplexedly. “I miss you all week,” he says, finally.

Greg looks quickly up, meeting Mycroft's gaze diffidently. Their eyes catch and hold. “All the time,” says Greg, after a long, breathless moment.

Mycroft nods. He reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb along Greg's cheekbone, then undoes the top two buttons of his Quidditch robes. He rucks the robes up and over Greg's head, leaving him in just thin Quidditch trousers and a white t-shirt.

Taking both of Greg's hands, he pulls him to the bed, throwing the covers back.

“Myc, I'm so sweaty after the game –”

“I do not _care,_ Gregory.” He pulls the other boy into bed, and winds himself around him. _I need this. To hold you. Be held. You do not understand how much._

Greg settles himself, head on Mycroft's chest. Remembering the holidays, Mycroft begins to stroke his hand gently through the soft strands of Greg's bright silver hair.

Greg melts against him, with a deep, relieved sigh. “You get it, right?” he murmurs. “’M so happy with you – I just wish we could – be together all the time.” He sighs. “I know it's stupid really. Even if we _were_  public, it's not like we could sleep in the same bed or anything. Even if we were in the same House we wouldn't be allowed. But Merlin, I just…each week – without you –”

“I know.” Mycroft's voice is low. He concentrates on keeping the movement of his hand through Greg's hair slow and steady. “I understand. Entirely.”

Greg's fingers tighten in Mycroft's shirt. “’S’not even like I'm doing a good job of hiding us,” he says, guiltily.

“Neither am I, apparently.” They both laugh, just a little.

Greg props his chin on Mycroft's chest and looks deep into his eyes. “This might be impossible,” he says, guiltily, biting his bottom lip. “So just – say, yeah? If it is? I'm not going to...hold it against you, or be grumpy or anything.”

Mycroft nods, once.

“I – d’you think there'd be any chance we could...share a place when school's over? When we're at the Ministry? If I make it in, I mean,” he adds.

Mycroft's eyebrows rise. His heart leaps in his chest.

“I mean, I know it's probably stupid,” mutters Greg.

“It had occurred to me,” says Mycroft, in a rush, “that perhaps it would look less conspicuous for us to share a flat – as roommates, with two bedrooms, of course – than to be visiting one another's places of residence, even once a week.”

Greg looks at him for a moment, seemingly unable to think of anything to say. A smile breaks slowly across his face, and into his eyes. Mycroft's breath catches.

“Myc,” murmurs Greg softly, and then he pushes himself up, rolling on top of Mycroft, burying his lips against his neck, biting down and kissing, licking.

Mycroft can't help squirming and making a sound that is definitely _not_ a giggle. Greg slips his hands inside Mycroft's shirt.

“Gregory!” yelps Mycroft. “Your hands are cold.”

Greg chuckles and kisses his neck. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

Mycroft tries to suppress his smile, in favour of staring sternly at his boyfriend. Greg kisses him, soft and slow.

“Come and shower with me,” murmurs Greg, with a lopsided grin. His eyes are dark and deep.

Mycroft nods, ignoring the squirm of nerves in his stomach. Greg climbs off the bed, keeping hold of Mycroft’s hand, pulling him towards the bathroom.

At the bathroom door, Mycroft gently presses Greg back against the wood and urges his arms up, slips his t-shirt off. He bends to kiss his ear and neck, the fingers of his right hand splayed softly on Greg’s side.

Greg sighs, and there is the hint of a groan behind it. He lets his head fall to the side, baring his neck for more kisses. “Myc,” he murmurs, barely audible.

Mycroft crowds a little closer, and Greg’s erection is hard against his thigh. At the buttons of Greg’s trousers, his stomach tenses warm and soft against the backs of Mycroft’s fingers. They kiss as Mycroft pushes Greg’s trousers and boxers to the floor. Greg’s kisses are demanding, and he raises his face for more, again and again, until they are smiling, and then chuckling between each kiss.

Greg undoes each of Mycroft’s shirt buttons, slowly, one by one, soft kisses to his collarbones and chest. When Mycroft drops his shirt, Greg runs his fingers gently down his arms, until they can wind their fingers together.

Mycroft’s cock, achingly hard in his trousers, throbs as Greg starts to undo his fly. He still blushes, slightly, when Greg can feel how much he wants him. He drops his gaze to the floor.

When they are both naked, Greg starts the shower, and draws Mycroft with him into the warm rain spray. He shakes his head in the stream of water, letting his eyes close. “God, that’s good after Quidditch,” he says, allowing his shoulders to slump forwards.

Mycroft smiles and places his hands on Greg’s shoulders. He has learned this, in the past few weeks: that he has permission to touch. When he likes, as much as he likes. He still cannot quite believe it, but Greg welcomes his touch without fail. His breath catches as he watches Greg, eyes closed in the spray, comfortable in his own skin, and unaware of his own beauty.

_Beauty._

Yes, it is the correct word.

 _I want to try something._ His heart speeds in his chest, skipping and lurching as he allows his hands to rest on Greg’s hipbones.

“Gregory?” Quiet. Too quiet in the noise of the shower. He tries again, and this time Greg opens his eyes, pushes his hair back from his eyes and blinks droplets away.

“Yeah?” he grins, hand on Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft cannot say it. His cheeks tint, and he hitches a breath. Then he kneels, eyes turned upwards to Greg’s, questioning.

Greg’s mouth forms soundlessly, and his eyes darken. “Oh. I – Myc – are you sure –”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip and gives a short half-nod, still blushing furiously.

Greg takes a breath. “Wait, I –” he says, turning to lean against the wall of the shower, blocking the bulk of the spray from Mycroft’s face. “I – if you don’t like it – you can stop, y’know –” he’s talking fast, distractedly.

Mycroft wants to laugh, but the nerves in the pit of his stomach squirm uncomfortably. “Gregory.”

Greg looks down at him, and gives a nervous huff of laughter. “Yeah.”

“Shh.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Greg pushes his hand through his hair again. “D’you want me to – I’ll say – when –”

Mycroft nods. “If you could.” He marvels at the calmness of his own voice.

He wraps his left hand around the base of Greg’s cock, surprised by just how much _larger_ it feels now that he’s contemplating taking it in his mouth. Greg is steel-hard, and holds back a gasp as Mycroft begins to touch him.

They have touched one another so much in the few nights they have been granted together over the past few weeks, that there is now almost a comfortable familiarity about this: Mycroft knows exactly how to make Greg desperate, needy, and satisfied.

But this – Mycroft’s stomach flips, and he looks up to Greg, who is watching him with full, dark, avid eyes. He smiles, and something swells in Mycroft’s chest.

He takes an exploratory lick to the inverted ‘v’ at the head of Greg’s cock, and Greg stifles a noise. Mycroft does it again, and spreads his tongue wide and flat, then pointed.

“Myc,” says Greg breathily. “I – God – Merlin –”

Mycroft can’t help smiling, an uncontrollable bubble of happiness bursting in his chest. To make him sound like this – _Gregory_  – it is incomparable. He takes the whole of the head in his mouth, closes his lips and laps gently at its underside.

 _“Fuck,”_ says Greg, on the inhale. His hands are flat against the tiles, and he allows his head to fall back too.

Mycroft tests his capabilities, sinking his lips further, discovering that it’s much easier to do if he lubricates the way with his tongue first. Eventually, he finds a point where his jaw hurts, and he doesn’t think he can go any further. Slowly, he pulls back a little, and massages the underside of Greg’s cock with his tongue.

Greg moans, and Mycroft blinks his eyes open, just a little: Greg’s knuckles are white, fingers braced tight against the wall. Something about the image is unbearably arousing. His own cock throbs between his legs.

Putting aside his own arousal in favour of Gregory’s – _something about that, too, something terribly appealing_ – he puts both hands tentatively on Greg’s hipbones.

Greg gasps, and covers Mycroft’s left hand with his right.

Mycroft can feel the tension in every line of Greg’s body, every tiny movement he makes. He wants to bring pleasure, and release, and relaxation. He needs it; everything, his own arousal, has suddenly become focused on making Greg come. The realisation is almost breathtaking. He does again what Greg had enjoyed before, massaging the ridge at the head of his cock with his tongue.

“Mycroft –” groans Greg. “That’s – I can’t –”

Mycroft does it again, reaching lower with his lips, bobbing his head a little. He gains confidence, and finds a rhythm. Greg’s gasps, his sighs, become regular. Slowly, Mycroft realises that Greg is shaking under his hands. He wants to tell him: _it is okay, I want this, I want you to – to –_

“Myc, you’ve got to stop,” moans Greg. His hand is suddenly in Mycroft’s hair, pulling him back, and Mycroft’s cock throbs. For a moment he’s afraid he’s about to come, and he makes a stifled noise in his throat. There’s a moment of breathless silence, and Mycroft keeps his eyes shut, seeking after control. Even as he masters himself, he moves his head: sucking, lapping at the head of Greg’s cock.

When Greg speaks again, it’s on a slightly hysterical-sounding laugh. “You have to – stop – Myc – I mean it –”

Reluctantly, Mycroft pulls back. His cheeks flare hot. “I – have no objection to –” he bites his bottom lip. “If you would like.”

Greg looks down at him, fingers tightening fractionally over Mycroft’s on his hipbone. “I –” he takes a deep breath. “Really –? You don’t have to –”

Mycroft fixes him with a look, and takes the head of Greg’s cock back into his mouth. Slowly, he finds again the tentative rhythm he had built.

Greg groans, and Mycroft hears the _thud_ of his head hitting tile. He massages the underside of Greg’s cock with his tongue, bobbing his head, jaw aching.

Greg’s fingers are tight over his own. _“Faster –”_ he gasps. “Just – a bit – f–” The ‘f’ of ‘faster’ dissolves, changes, mutates, and Mycroft opens his eyes, heart pounding as he feels Greg’s cock swell further between his lips. “Fuck,” gasps Greg. “Fuck – oh fuck – Mycroft –” his hips buck, and he pushes himself back against the wall as his cock starts to pulse onto Mycroft’s tongue.

Eventually, Mycroft can avoid swallowing the warm liquid no longer, and does so. Bitter – revolting, really – but the bubble of pride swelling in his chest makes him want to grin. _How long am I supposed to – has he…_

“God – Merlin –” Greg’s hands run through Mycroft’s hair, tugging gently. “Come up here – fuck –”

Mycroft stands, slowly, knees screaming after so long against the hard tiles. Greg pulls him in, skin against skin, arms tight around his waist. Gently, he kisses Mycroft’s chin, his jaw, softly at the corner of his mouth. “Gorgeous – God, Mycroft –”

Mycroft nuzzles Greg’s ear, trying to ignore the insistent arousal drumming with his pulse. His cock is desperately hard against Greg’s stomach.

Greg stands on tiptoe, pushing their foreheads together. Eyes soft and dark, he steals a slow kiss.

Mycroft finds himself pushed back against the wall, tiles cold against his buttocks and shoulders. He bites his lip as Greg kneels. “You do not have to –” he murmurs. The sound of the warm water drowns him out, but Greg gives him a knowing look, eyes glowing with – with _something_ that Mycroft cannot name.

Greg kisses Mycroft’s stomach, and wraps his right hand around the base of his cock. His left strokes Mycroft’s thigh, then comes to rest on his hipbone.

The first touch – the first sensation of being surrounded, enveloped, heat and suction and the slow caress of Greg’s tongue – Mycroft swears he will never forget it and promptly does, another moment and another of sensation taking him in waves.

_Perhaps Greg has done this before? And yet – his sexual history as told would suggest not. He learns – he learns quickly – his hand moving in concert with his mouth – perfect, why did I not think of that? Oh, Merlin, oh –_

Mycroft’s toes curl against the tile, and even the rain of warm water striking gently down his right side has become too much, an overwhelming sensation, every part of his skin tuned to a point of vibrancy, of desperation –

He knows he is lost, it is over, and yet his mouth cannot form the words. His cheeks glow with embarrassment, and he moans.

Greg’s left hand splays across Mycroft’s stomach, and his thumb strokes gently, repeatedly, back and forth. Mycroft hears it as though in Greg’s voice: _it’s alright, gorgeous, do it, I want you to._  And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice he imagines for Greg sometimes: _come for me. Come for me, Mycroft. Come on my tongue, like I told you._

He moans again, and spills helplessly into Greg’s mouth.

Wrapped in towels, warm and sated, they curl into the nest of duvet, pillows and blankets on the bed.

“You have – before –?” asks Mycroft, quietly.

“A couple of times,” says Greg, kissing Mycroft’s shoulder. “With – you know. But never – um, giving. Hope it was okay,” he says, jokily. His eyes are deep, nonetheless.

“Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft, nuzzling his lips against Greg’s neck. “Thank you.”

*

At lunchtime the next day, Greg’s eyes are warm and soft across the Great Hall.

Mycroft, cheeks flushed, meets his gaze quickly, then glances down to his plate, full of shepherd’s pie and broccoli.

When he looks back up, Greg nods and smiles, just for him.

*

“Well, this is cosy,” purrs Loxias. He stands at the end of their study table, just inside the protective silencing charm. “You two. Studying hard.”

Greg smiles up at him. “Mm,” he says. “Alright, Terry?”

Terry nods, awkwardly. “Hi, Greg –” he glances quickly at Mycroft, but says nothing.

In his peripheral vision, Mycroft sees that Loxias has transferred his attention to him. “Holmes. Have you got notes for the Transfiguration mock?”

Mycroft lifts his gaze reluctantly from his textbook. “Yes,” he says, tiredly.

There’s a short silence. Loxias shifts slightly on his feet, a tall, broad presence. His air of expectation sharpens slightly. Anticipation, too: _he wants a fight,_ sighs Mycroft, internally. _Boring._

“No reason you need those, is there, Armand?” asks Greg, pleasantly.

“None of your business, Lestrade,” says Loxias, faintly amused.

Greg smiles slightly. “You were in class, weren’t you? Where’re your notes?”

Loxias fixes his eyes on Mycroft. “No point. Holmes’s here are always better.” His voice is full of enjoyment, of the pleasure of making his dominance known. Mycroft’s chest tightens, but he is entirely motionless, back straight.

Greg sits back in his chair. “Well. Damn. Guess you’ll have to start making some from now on, won’t you?”

Loxias shifts his stance again. “I said, none of your fucking business.” He crosses his arms. “Your _boyfriend’s_ never minded helping me out,” he says, lazily. “And he’s not about to start minding now, are you _Mycroft?”_

Mycroft lifts the corner of his mouth in a wry smile. _I’ll pay for this later._ “Your talent for ensuring that I suffer in the dormitory has always guaranteed my compliance, Loxias,” he says quietly.

Greg’s foot finds his under the table, the gentlest of touches.

Loxias gives a sly half-smile. “You’re _smart,_ Holmes. That works in both our favour.”

“Fuck off,” says Greg, and it’s so pleasantly said that, for a moment, Mycroft doesn’t absorb the sense of the words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft watches Terry’s face change, slowly – his miserable glance to Loxias.

Loxias turns fully to Greg. “I’m not interested in listening to you play the hero for your little _boyfriend,”_  he smirks.

Greg laughs. “What’s your point, Loxias?”

“We knew _he_ was gay,” he grins. “Didn’t realise you are.”

Mycroft’s foot presses against Greg’s. _You can’t –_

There’s a complicated, mutinous expression on Greg’s face. _He wants to tell him,_ thinks Mycroft, and his stomach clenches.

“I’m not gay,” says Greg, arms crossed tightly. His voice is nonchalant, still.

“Well, you’ll want to be careful of him, then,” sneers Loxias.

Mycroft watches Greg’s expression from under his eyelashes.

His eyes are dark, full of a dangerous kind of fire. “What the _fuck_  does that mean?”

Loxias hesitates. Perhaps he has finally heard the warning edge to Greg’s tone.

“You know,” he says, a little less confidently. “Just watch your back.”

“Nice. According to you, all gay men are rapists.”

“No, I –” he shifts his feet, thrown slightly. Terry takes a half-step back from him. His cheeks are slightly flushed.

“Not interested in you any more, _Armand,”_ says Greg, offensively. “Fuck off. And if I find out you’ve done anything to Mycroft – taken his notes, touched him, fucking _talked_ to him, I’ll make you regret coming to this school in the first place.”

Loxias sneers, openly. “Yeah right. Perfect Lestrade, Gryffindor team captain? Unlikely.”

“There are ways and means,” says Greg, coolly. “Fuck. Off.”

“See you later, _Mycroft,”_ says Loxias.

Greg stands up, quickly. “Fuck off.”

Loxias opens his mouth again, flushed with anger.

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll –”

“Fuck off.” Greg grins.

Loxias walks away.

Greg sits down. “Sorry. That was childish.”

Mycroft can’t help smirking, just a little. “Eminently enjoyable, however.”

Greg’s foot finds his again under the table. “Is it – is that going to make it – worse for you? Now? In the dorm, I mean?” his eyes are dark with concern.

Mycroft focuses on his notebook, and gives a quick half-shake of the head. “They mostly leave me alone, Gregory. They learned long ago that I am uninterested in interacting with the majority of them.”

Greg gives a long, slow sigh. He leans forward and speaks softly, even though their speech is magically silenced to everyone around them. “Just wish we had a place of our own. Every night. Away from those bastards.”

“Believe me, Gregory, I do too.”

Greg nods miserably. “’M’sorry. I know there’s no point –” he waves a hand slightly, “– going on about it.”

Mycroft presses Greg’s foot with his own. “We must simply graduate with the grades we need,” he murmurs. “And find a way from there.” His stomach squirms unpleasantly as he thinks about what lies beyond Hogwarts.

Greg’s foot pushes his in return. “That your way of telling me to just bloody get on with it?” he says, trying for his usual grin.

Mycroft lifts the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, Gregory.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely, supportive comments ❤️

As the exams draw closer, Mycroft’s ability to sleep reduces still further. Lying alone in the darkness, canopy curtains drawn tight around his bed, he tries, and fails. Most nights, he gets two or three hours of sleep, but wakes again before light. He studies by _Lumos_ light, and makes his way to the library as soon as it opens. Most mornings, Greg comes to find him there, and remind him of breakfast. Usually, he finds a way to touch Mycroft on their way out of the library – a hand on his elbow, or at his shoulder as he passes him his bag.

It gets a little easier to pretend. Mycroft tries not to look at Greg too much, in public. It is easier than trying to keep his expression blank when his heart feels raw and ready to leap from his chest.

The weather gets slowly warmer, and Hufflepuff play Slytherin at Quidditch; Mycroft spends a wasteful amount of time punishing members of his own House’s team for intimidation and dirty tactics in advance of the game.

Loxias finds himself with a nasty burnt weal across his chest after he attempts to hex Mycroft in the shower. He snarls, and talks big, but does not attack Mycroft again.

Mycroft waits to tell Greg about it until the next Saturday; until they are curled, naked and relaxed, in bed. He holds Greg’s hands and pulls him back, makes him swear – _swear_ – that he will not retaliate in any way.

“I have dealt with it, Gregory.”

“You shouldn’t have to fucking deal with it –” Greg struggles against Mycroft’s grip. “Fuck – Christ, Mycroft –”

“If you start dealing out violence on my behalf, not only will it endanger your prospects here, it will also make people aware that – that we are –” Mycroft rolls almost on top of Greg, pinning his arms down and slinging a leg over his stomach. “Think about later. After Hogwarts. The future.” He pushes his lips against Greg’s shoulder.

Greg sighs, the tension going slowly out of him. He pulls back a little and frees one hand. “You think too much about the future,” he says, quietly, traces of fierce vehemence still in his voice. He runs the pad of his thumb over the dark circles under Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft half-shakes his head, and splays his long fingers across Greg’s chest.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” sighs Greg.

“I sleep well here, with you.”

“Yeah.” Greg wraps his right arm around Mycroft’s waist, and pulls him tight against his side. “I know. Once a week. You’re working too much though.”

Mycroft kisses his collarbone. Already he can feel sleep coming to take him. “Gregory,” he murmurs, a soft admonishment, a gentle rebuke to his worry.

“’S’okay, gorgeous,” whispers Greg, in return. His hand runs through Mycroft’s hair. “Sleep.”

*

It is a Tuesday evening when little Taurus McShane finds Mycroft in the library. It is after dinner, and it takes the young Slytherin a couple of hissed attempts to attract his attention.

When he finally looks up from his notes, slightly dazed at the change in focus, he finds the young boy looking nervously at him, shifting slightly from one foot to the other.

“Um –” he takes a breath and fixes his eyes on Mycroft’s school bag. “McGonagall – Professor McGonagall – asked me to find you. Her office, she said. She said you know the password.”

Mycroft blinks. “Thank you, McShane.”

Looking slightly startled that Mycroft knows his name, the second-year walks as fast as Madam Blackthorn’s repressive gaze will allow back out of the library.

Packing his study materials away as quickly as possible, Mycroft picks up his bag and walks with nervous, tired energy through the corridors. The gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s Tower asks for the password with a world-weary sigh.

“Hot toddy,” says Mycroft, and steps onto the rotating staircase.

When the door opens, the only thing his watchful eyes perceive at first is the gently-rotating scale model of the solar system. The calm breathof the ancient room enfolds him, the portraits closest eyeing him with sleepy interest.

“Holmes,” says the Headmistress’ calm, wry voice, and Mycroft’s attention flies to her desk – to – _oh, no._

Deliberately not looking at him, slumped sulkily in his chair, is a small boy with curly black hair.

Mycroft sighs, and steps forward to take the seat the Headmistress motions him into. Next to him, Sherlock turns his face very slightly away.

“Headmistress,” says Mycroft, as calmly as he can manage, and beside him he feels Sherlock draw into himself. He is sure that the small boy just rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock has just been found in the Potions cupboard,” says McGonagall, matter-of-factly. _“Again.”_ She raises an eyebrow. “Professor Delane suspects that there was another student present, but there was an – incident – when he discovered them and –” she pauses, _“whoever-it-was_ got away.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “An – incident?”

“Unfortunately several trays of valuable materials have been rendered unusable,” says McGonagall, darkly.

“This is a matter for my head of House,” says Sherlock, with the best impression of unconcern he can manage. There’s a slight tremor in his voice, all the same. “Not for _him.”_

McGonagall purses her lips and fixes Sherlock with a stare that could turn the most hardened sinner to stone. “When I wish you to talk, Sherlock Holmes, I shall indicate that fact with a clear and unequivocal request.”

Sherlock snaps his mouth shut.

Mycroft looks up at McGonagall. “My apologies, Headmistress, but –” he hesitates.

“I am afraid, given the number of warnings that Sherlock has now flouted,” she sweeps on, “I have been obliged to notify your parents of the situation.”

Mycroft closes his mouth, and swallows. He blinks, twice, and puts his hands together beneath the edge of the desk. “Surely, Professor –”

She watches him, dark eyes beady. “I am sorry, Holmes,” she says.

Mycroft swallows again, throat oddly dry. “Headmistress – Sherlock and I have money, from Christmas – I am sure that we could replace the materials that were damaged –”

McGonagall’s eyes are oddly compassionate. “It is,” she says, eyes flicking between the faces before her, “a matter of school rules. When those rules are repeatedly flouted, my next action is to inform the parents.”

Her manner brooks no argument. Mycroft nods, once, looking down at the floor. “Have you – heard from our parents?” He glances up. “Headmistress,” he adds, quickly.

“I expect your father,” says McGonagall curtly, “shortly.”

Mycroft glances quickly away, staring at an ancient portrait in the distance, currently empty. _Ready. You must be ready. Close your mind – how much – how much does Sherlock know? How much will he surmise, and how much tell, in order to distract Father?_ Mycroft swallows against the lump in his throat.

At the back of the office, an old, unshowy fireplace blazes green, flames licking forward out of the grate.

Despite his obvious nervousness, curiosity tinges Sherlock’s pale features. “Floo powder? But –”

“By invitation only, Holmes,” says McGonagall, severely. She stands and turns away from her desk, taking a few steps forward.

Siger Holmes steps gracefully from the emerald flames, robes swirling around his legs. He comes forward, holding out his hand. “Minerva,” he smiles, pressing her hand between both of his. His eyes fix on hers with singularly focused silver fire.

“Mr Holmes,” she says, gently withdrawing her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“I understand that our youngest has been causing trouble,” says Siger, turning his gaze briefly on Sherlock. “Although I hadn’t expected to see _Mycroft_ here – surely _he_  hasn’t been getting into hot water, too?” His voice is full of the false jocularity he adopts at parties.

Sherlock gives an almost-inaudible huff of laughter, under his breath.

_Focus,_ thinks Mycroft desperately. _Guard your thoughts. None of this matters. Only Gre– don’t think about him. About that. None of that exists here. Lock it away._

He closes doors in his mind, and looks fixedly at the floor.

“Mr Holmes,” says McGonagall, fingertips resting on the edge of her desk. “Sherlock has been discovered in the Potions cupboard, without permission and after dark, again. He has flouted the three previous warnings he has been given on this score, and his Head of House and I have judged it time to involve his parents.”

“And my brother, apparently,” mutters Sherlock.

“Quiet,” says Siger Holmes, and his voice is soft. “As Head Boy, your brother is perfectly entitled to be here.”

Mycroft can almost hear Sherlock’s retort, but the small boy does not dare to make it out loud, under the combined gaze of his father and McGonagall. Instead, he juts out his sharp chin, a defiance of millimetres.

“Sherlock has always had a very inquiring mind,” says Siger, smoothly.

“We are of course aware of that,” says McGonagall, with a delicately wry turn to her voice. “He has the potential for top grades in every subject, if he applies himself.”

Siger smiles, eyes cold. “The question, of course, is always whether he will.” He positions himself between his sons, a little behind them.

_Focus._ Mycroft twists his fingers into the fabric of his robe pockets. His mind wants to run and hide behind the doors it has locked.

“Well, boys,” says his father, and reluctantly, they both turn to him. He looks between them, Mycroft first, his eyes moving to fasten on Sherlock’s. “I cannot believe that you were alone in this, Sherlock,” he says, gently. “You are an intelligent lad.” The word rings falsely fond between his lips. “You must have had someone there with you. A _friend.”_ The inflection is delicate, but Mycroft hears it clearly.

_Dancing. Laughter. A confrontation, and bands of panic tight around his chest. A kiss. Don’t think about that._

“No.” Sherlock’s voice is high, but defiant. His eyes are a cold, slate grey, locked on his father’s.

_Father never could break through to Sherlock._ There is a kind of chilling fascination in it. Only Sherlock’s hands – tight fists – give an indication that he is resisting with force.

Siger’s lips press tight, and his attention whips onto Mycroft with startling ferocity. And Mycroft feels it, what he has dreaded: the whisper-soft caress at his temple, searching for an entry.

He resists.

“You must know,” says Siger, with a gentle smile. “Sherlock’s friends.”

In his peripheral vision, Mycroft sees Sherlock’s lips tighten, his chin lift slightly. His eyes are full of anger. _He thinks I will tell him._

It feels like having a headache. Only, in an odd way, it feels as though _everything else,_ the rest of the world, has a headache – pressing in – around him –

“On the contrary, Father,” says Mycroft, meekly. “I am afraid that I have not been paying attention.” He takes a steady breath, seeking tentatively for the brush of sensation at his temple. _If it is still there, he has not yet succeeded._ “This year is –” he motions slightly in the air. “It has been busy.”

Siger’s smile twists. “I know _you_ have never had time for _friends,_ Mycroft,” he murmurs. There is a long, slow moment, and Mycroft’s stomach contracts. “Until Christmas, of course.”

Mycroft’s eyes fasten on Sherlock’s, and the younger boy’s are deep with interest and a kind of triumphant humour. Desperately, Mycroft tries to find the bothersome wisp at his temple again. This time, when he does find it, it is a little stronger. The pressure of a fingertip, perhaps.

“I am as focused on my studies as ever, Father,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. Sherlock’s mouth tightens contemptuously.

_Please, Sherlock. Please not now. Please._

The younger boy’s brows draw together in a minute frown.

“Perhaps,” says McGonagall curtly, “we might focus on how Sherlock will be making amends to Professor Delane, to myself and to his House.”

It is almost a shock to Mycroft to remember that the Headmistress is still present. The stifling pressure at his temples gives way, suddenly, and he takes hold of the back of the chair in front of him. He looks down, and the hand’s knuckles are clenched, white. It feels separate from him, unrelated. He blinks, twice, and takes a long, silent breath in.

In the humming, whirring quiet of the office, their father’s voice is like silk. “We shall, of course, pay for all damage.”

McGonagall makes a contained gesture, mouth set. “That will not be necessary. I do however wish Sherlock to attend two hours of detention weekly with Professor Delane. During this time he will aid in repairing the damage he has caused.”

Siger Holmes smiles, eyes cold. “That seems very fair. And the accomplice in his crimes? Is he – or she – to escape punishment entirely?”

“Unless Sherlock supplies us with further information, we have no choice but to proceed on the understanding that he acted alone.”

Their father turns to Sherlock, an impatient, jerky edge to his movements. The young boy’s eyes flash dark with defiance.

“No choice,” repeats the Headmistress, radiating cool authority.

Slowly, Siger Holmes turns back to her. A flicker of a contemptuous smile, quickly wiped away. “Indeed,” is all he says.

“Sherlock?” asks the Headmistress. “You accept the detention?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock sullenly, staring at the floor.

McGonagall steps from behind her desk. “Then I believe I need trouble you no further, Mr Holmes,” she says, ushering him firmly towards the fireplace.

As they exchange the usual polite commonplaces, Mycroft darts a glance to Sherlock. He is met with the full force of his younger brother’s curious, hostile stare.

This is something different, what they can do: not Occlumency, or Legilimency; not quite.

The smallest flick of Sherlock’s eyebrow, a twitch of a frown. _You resisted him. Why?_

Mycroft purses his lips. _As did you. Why should I not?_

A contemptuous flare of Sherlock’s nostrils. _For the first time in your life, then._

Mycroft drops his gaze away. _Believe what you like, Sherlock._ He turns back to the front, to face the Headmistress.

“Dismissed, Sherlock,” says McGonagall, curtly. “Straight back to Gryffindor Tower, if you please.”

Mycroft steps back, too, but McGonagall pins him with a look. “A moment, Mycroft.”

As the staircase bears Sherlock away, Mycroft wracks his brain. _She cannot know about the Room of Requirement, can she?_ Thoughts of Greg flow back into his head, desperately-locked doors bursting wide.

“Madam Blackthorn tells me you spend every waking moment in her library, Holmes,” says the Headmistress, regarding him over the top of her spectacles.

Mycroft draws a breath. “No – I –”

“We all need a break, Holmes,” says McGonagall, flatly. “Learn to take them.” Before he can think how to reply, she motions him out of the office.

*

“Ugh, Loxias, must you? You fucking stink.”

“Fuck off, Khan.”

“Why do I have to share a dorm with you? What did I do wrong in a past life?”

“Sharing with me’s an honour, Khan.”

“Shut up, all of you! Shut the fuck up! I’ve got Quidditch practice in the morning.”

In the darkness, Mycroft stares at the canopy over his bed and agrees, fervently, with Morven. It seems to take forever, every night, for the seventh-year Slytherin boys to go to sleep. Even when they settle into quiet, often there are further outbreaks of chatting, eddies of – usually combative – conversation that make him roll his eyes and ruthlessly suppress a sigh. _Do not be heard._

Not that he can sleep, even when they do shut up.

“Seriously, Loxias, can’t you take a fucking shower?”

“It’s his _burn,”_  laughs Stretton. “From attacking Holmes in the shower.”

Several of the boys chuckle, nastily. In the darkness, Mycroft’s hand tightens on the duvet. He is terribly conscious of the sound of his own breathing.

He cannot hear Terry Denbright’s laughter, amongst the others’.

“Should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” says Khan, crossly. “Twat.”

“Couldn’t, could he,” says Stretton, mockingly. “Didn’t want to tell her he’d been following naked men into the showers for dubious purposes…”

His sentence is cut off by Loxias’ foul-mouthed stream of abuse. As the other boys laugh – with the exception of Khan, who makes a noise that sounds like a growl of frustration muffled in a pillow – Loxias raises his voice again. “Hardly. Holmes and Lestrade are fucking.”

There’s a short silence, during which Mycroft holds his breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face miserably against the pillow. _What would I not give to be in the Room of Requirement now?_

“Shut up Loxias,” says Stretton, with scorn. “Lestrade’s not gay – I heard he and Urquart used to fuck in a classroom on the fifth floor all the time.” Mycroft’s stomach turns cold, slithering sick with jealousy and doubt. “Anyway,” adds Stretton amusedly, “Christ – Lestrade might be a Gryffindor twat but can you imagine him with _Holmes – Merlin.”_  He laughs, and some of the others snigger with him.

Mycroft does not move a muscle. The darkness, the air around him, seems thick and chokingly warm. His cheeks feel hot.

He cannot sleep that night.

*

Lessons the next day take forever. The hours while away as Mycroft dutifully takes notes, eyes dry and hot with tiredness.

The world seems to pulsate with a kind of silent pressure, or perhaps his head – his head is splitting, his eyes are so sore and tired –

In the corridors, he has to stay alert in case the lesson changeover becomes more than the usual jostling, in case members of different houses clash, or friends are too loud, and it is all so – so predictable.

His alertness is edgy, the world around him too bright and too loud. He physically jumps when, in the crush of students, he feels a hand press his. Instinctively, he resists, trying to jerk his arm away. Only then does he feel a slip of paper against his palm, and a parting squeeze of fingers, pulling away. Whipping round, he catches a flash of Greg’s silver hair in the crowd. He is seemingly absorbed in laughing with Lena Vane, the Gryffindor Keeper.

Mycroft is suddenly, blindingly awake. Anticipation thrills down his spine, and he clenches his hand around the note, pushes it safely into his pocket.

Only when he is settled in Arithmancy does he risk unfolding the note. It is short, hastily scribbled on an untidily torn square of parchment:

**_Miss you. Lake, tonight at 7? x_ **

The words, plain and unemotional though they are, make Mycroft’s heart speed and skip. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, massages his temples, and attempts to pay attention to the lesson.

*

Greg is sitting, robes drawn around him, on the tree stump next to the lake. The evening light is soft, air heavy with the falling dusk chill. Mycroft feels a reflexive echo of the bleak sadness and fear that had overwhelmed him last time they were here. He hastens his steps towards Greg.

As he approaches, Greg turns to look up at him. He smiles, eyes dark and deep. “Hi,” he says, shifting over on the tree stump. “Sit?”

Mycroft takes a seat, the wood cool below him. He is careful to sit upright, holding himself a little away from the warmth of the boy next to him. There are still other students in the grounds, walking around the lake, to watch the Quidditch practice or to meet friends.

“This week is way too fucking long,” murmurs Greg. “I miss you.”

Mycroft’s heart contracts, and he struggles to keep his breathing normal. Stretton’s words of the night before replay in his head.

Greg turns to look at him. “Christ. Did you sleep at all?”

Reluctantly, Mycroft shakes his head. “I – was unable to…” he raises one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

“Myc,” mutters Greg, miserably. He doesn’t seem sure what else to say. “I know it’s close to the exams and everything, but you’ve got to give yourself a break.” He glances quickly up into Mycroft’s eyes. “There’s absolutely no bloody way you’re not going to ace the exams. You’ve got to – you need to sleep properly.”

Mycroft swallows, his throat tight. “I –” he hesitates. “I did try,” he says, and his eyes sting with rising tears. He presses his lips together.

Greg makes a soft, pained noise in his throat, and interlinks his fingers. “Sleeping draught, maybe?” he suggests, after a moment.

Mycroft shakes his head, once. “In my dormitory?” he asks, with a touch of wry humour.

Greg bites his bottom lip, and his drawn-down brows warn Mycroft that he has not forgotten Loxias’ attack. “I know,” is all he says.

There’s a long moment of silence, into which the sound of the distant Hufflepuff Quidditch practice intrudes with muffled yells and shouts.

“Two nights to go,” says Greg. “Until the Room.”

Mycroft takes a long, slow breath. “Yes,” he says, as calmly as he can.

Greg turns to look at him, frown line drawn between his brows. His gaze flickers knowingly over Mycroft’s face.

“What’s going on, Myc?” he asks.

Mycroft looks quickly away, burying his hands in the pockets of his robes.

“Darlin’,” murmurs Greg, low, almost a whisper. It’s the first time he’s called Mycroft that, and instantly, Mycroft’s eyes are full of tears.

He bends his head, swimming gaze fixed on the dark material of his school trousers.

Greg makes a quiet, desperate noise. “Fuck – I can’t – tell me,” he says, frantically. “Has Loxias done something? I’ll –”

Mycroft shakes his head, once, and to his shame a tear falls onto his robes. He turns his face away, eyes wide open in an effort to regain control. He cannot risk being seen crying – even at a distance – by other students.

“Mycroft.” Greg’s voice is soft, but urgent.

“I –” Mycroft stops, throat choked with tears. He clears it and tries again. “There has been no threat on my person, Gregory, I promise.”

“Okay. But – something though. Come on – _fuck,_ I hate this, there’s not even anywhere we can go –” Mycroft feels him shift on the tree stump, actions urgent and contained. “Please tell me. _Please.”_

The words feel heavy in Mycroft’s chest. His stomach squirms. “I – last night. I could not sleep. The other Slytherin boys – led by Loxias, of course – were…speculating about you. Your sexuality.” _They did not think you could possibly be attracted to me._ He fights a sob, throat tight. “They suggested that you and Lara Urquart used to – _frequent_ a certain classroom for –” he trails off, unable to say the words.

Greg sighs. “Ugh, Merlin, they’re so disgusting,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I know you already know this but – we didn’t have sex at all. Anything. I promise.” He turns to look at Mycroft. “I swear.”

Greg’s expression twists as they make eye contact, and Mycroft knows he must present a miserable, tear-stained picture. He turns his head away again, quickly.

“Gorgeous,” whispers Greg. “Stop – stop hiding, hmm?”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip and takes several calming breaths. His chest feels tight, but his stomach has ceased to squirm with jealousy, at least. Slowly, he turns back to face Greg. The couple of inches between them on the tree stump feel like miles.

Greg gives him a gentle smile, his eyes deep, dark brown. “I wish we could just go to the Room,” he whispers.

Mycroft nods, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

“Fuck it,” murmurs Greg. “I was going to do some stuff with the team but – d’you want to go to the Library? Let’s just go and get through some homework.” He smiles. “Just want to spend a few hours with you.”

Mycroft breathes out, the tight knot in his chest seeming to loosen slightly. Slowly, he nods. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Greg shakes his head slightly. “You’re the one that’s got to put up a good enough shield charm that I can play footsie with you without anyone noticing,” he murmurs, with a cheeky little grin.

Mycroft cannot help smiling, even as he rolls his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

The night before his first exam, Mycroft cannot sleep. He tries for a while, but it is impossible. His eyes open in the darkness, and before long he props himself up against the headboard, and simply revises Arithmancy until dawn.

In the morning, he sits at breakfast, stomach squirming. As he drinks his tea, Greg’s soft, stern, deep gaze finds his. He chokes down a piece of toast and marmalade.

Tired though he is, he loses time entirely during the exam. The classroom is silent but for the frantic scratching of quills, and Mycroft finishes the knotty paper with twenty minutes to spare. He takes the time to check it over, correcting a couple of silly mistakes and adding detail to his workings where necessary. When they file out of the exam, exhaustion washes over him.

That night, he sleeps peacefully for the first time in months, outside the Room.

He has two days before the Potions exam. It will take a full day: a practical in the morning, followed by a written exam, comprising a report on the practical and a set of focused questions. He spends two days in the library, memorising every potion they have brewed in the sixth and seventh years in both their original recipe form, and with any small adjustments he has made through trial and error.

Greg joins him on the second day, having spent the previous day on his Care of Magical Creatures final, part of which had been spent coaxing a grumpy Kneazle out of the near edge of the Forbidden Forest. “Not even convinced that bit was meant to be in the exam,” grins Greg, looking at Mycroft over his highlighted flashcards. “Hagrid just knows she likes me.”

“Everyone likes you,” says Mycroft abstractedly, writing out from memory the recipe for Felix Felicis.

Greg just smiles and rests his foot against Mycroft’s under the table.

They study quietly for the rest of the day, joined for a few hours at a time by other revising seventh-years. Mycroft nods at both Lena Vane and Lara Urquart, who come to say hi to Greg. Marcus Dedworth, a Gryffindor seventh-year and friend of Greg’s, drops by in a panic about the Transfiguration exam. Having realised that he missed two lessons at the end of last term due to being in the Infirmary, he’s also discovered that he never caught up on the notes. While Greg is searching for his own notes, Mycroft silently and tentatively pushes a sheaf of pages towards Greg’s hand.

Greg looks up and catches his eye, and gives him a private half-smile. He picks them up and holds them out to Marcus. “Mycroft’s got a copy.”

Mycroft keeps his eyes trained on his Potions notes, although he’s not able to absorb their sense while the tense moment of silence stretches out.

Marcus reaches out a hand and takes them. “I – thanks, Holmes,” he says, shuffling quickly through the sheets. “Um – Mycroft. I’ll just – copy them down. I’m at that table over there. I’ll – be back in a bit.”

Greg grins at him, and Mycroft glances very quickly up at the stocky, dark-haired boy.

*

The morning after all the exams are over, Mycroft wakes in the quiet of early dawn, staring up at the canopy above him. He is still tightly-wound, but slowly the reality of _no more exams_ sinks in. He wishes he had a broom, so that he could fly as fast as possible around the grounds, cold morning wind in his hair and his tired, puffy eyes.

Stealthily, he climbs quietly out of bed. In the bathroom, he takes a shower, dresses and does his teeth. Climbing the Owlery tower works off some of his nervous energy, into the breathing, rustling, flurrying dawn space amongst the beams. His usual letters to Mrs Hudson and his parents wing away with Lancelot, across the lake and towards the sunrise. He leans against the open stonework windowsill and watches the sky turn from grey to primrose to white to blue; the Giant Squid stretches out its arms and tentacles in the sunshine, emerging from the cold of night beneath the lake.

At breakfast, Greg smiles as he watches Mycroft eat two slices of toast and marmalade, an apple, a pear, and several cups of tea.

*

“Cordelia, Hortense,” says Mycroft, turning to the sixth-year prefects. “As the first item on the agenda, we are now just a couple of weeks away from the Summer Ball. Thank you very much for continuing to work on this while the exams have been going on. Could you give us an update, and let us know how we can help, now that we have free time to do so?”

Hortense purses her lips. “It’s all arranged,” she says, sweeping Mycroft and the seventh-year prefects with a withering glance. “There’s nothing for you to do, _now.”_

Cordelia rolls her eyes and gives Mycroft a small, apologetic smile.

“Nevertheless,” says Mycroft, mildly. “Perhaps we could go through it point by point. In case any ways in which we could be useful come to light.”

*

“D’you already own a tuxedo?” asks Greg, curling himself around Mycroft, the cotton sheet wound around and over them. His lips find Mycroft’s neck, nuzzling and kissing. “Prob’ly a stupid question. You do, don’t you?”

Mycroft stretches his neck for more kisses, luxuriating in the feeling of Greg’s skin pressed to his, lazy post-coital morning sleepiness pulling at him again. “Mmm,” he assents, eyelids drooping with the pure indulgence of it all.

Greg chuckles gently. “’S’that a yes, gorgeous?”

“Yes,” murmurs Mycroft.

“Aw, damn,” sighs Greg, splaying his fingers on Mycroft’s pale chest. “Marcus and I are going to get fitted for ’em in the village tomorrow. Wondered if you wanted to come too.”

Surprised, Mycroft suppresses a flick of his eyebrow. “I should appreciate the walk to the bookshop,” he says, tentatively.

Greg’s eyes crinkle happily. “It’s a date,” he says, kissing Mycroft lightly. He pulls back. “’S’prob’ly for the best, anyway, about the suit fitting,” he sighs. “Doubt if I could keep my hands to myself.”

__“_ Grégoire.”_

Greg giggles, and props himself up on his elbow to kiss Mycroft thoroughly, winding a hand into his hair. “It’ll be difficult enough at the ball,” he murmurs. “Not being able to dance with you.”

Mycroft’s heart wrenches. He strokes the pad of his thumb along Greg’s cheek, and nods. He closes his eyes. _You have to say it._

“You need to go with someone,” he says, voice as neutral as he can make it. “To the ball.”

There’s a quiet moment, and then Greg’s nose nudges his. “Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me?”

Mycroft blinks his eyes open.

Greg smiles at him, eyes soft and warm. “I’ve arranged with Lena to go together, alright?”

Mycroft’s stomach twists, but he nods.

Greg presses a kiss under his jaw. “You know she’s dating Violet Stretton, from Ravenclaw? Think her cousin’s in your year, in Slytherin. Anyway, her family’s a bunch of homophobic arseholes, so they can’t go together.”

Mycroft presses his lips together, and runs his fingers slowly up Greg’s side. “Gregory,” he murmurs.

“Mmm?” asks Greg, smiling down into Mycroft’s eyes.

“You are –” Mycroft cannot continue, because his chest feels full of more words than he knows how to use. Instead, he wraps his hand around the back of Greg’s neck, and pulls him into a long, slow kiss.

*

The day of the ball passes in a blur of organisation, arrangements and decoration, and in the end Mycroft only just has time to take a quick shower and pull on his suit, resorting to magic to fasten his bow tie as he hurries back down to the Great Hall in time to meet the prefects, the Headmistress and other Professors before the main doors are opened.

The Great Hall looks magnificent, the enchanted ceiling mirroring the summer dusk of the evening sky, and thousands of candles floating high above even Hagrid’s head height. Just one long House table remains, pushed to the side, groaning with a buffet of delicious finger-foods. Around the dancefloor are small areas of seating, cushions and beanbags arranged in clusters. On the stage, Devil’s Snare are tuning up, their roadies testing each instrument in turn.

Cordelia Smethwyck, wearing a primrose-yellow dress, leans in as the doors are opened. “Looks good, don’t you think?” she asks, nervously.

Mycroft gives her a quick, tight smile. “Certainly,” he says, reservedly. “Your hard work has certainly paid off.”

“Oh – no – I mean, it was everyone,” she says, looking shyly down at the floor.

McGonagall’s speech pays tribute to the long year and hard work by all the students and professors, and to the particular efforts of the prefects in arranging this celebration.

As the music starts, Mycroft’s eyes catch the flash of Greg’s ash-silver hair.

“Mycroft!” calls an eager voice, and Jen beckons him over. Stupidly, Mycroft cannot look up as he walks towards her. Shyness tightens his chest, makes his heart turn over with an ungainly _thump._ “Looking sharp,” grins Jen, threading her arm through his. He squeezes her arm under his own, a mute thanks.

Slowly, he looks at Greg through his eyelashes. _Fuck. He looks –_

Greg’s got his arm round Lena’s waist, but his eyes are riveted on Mycroft, bright and soft and full of – full of – _something –_

The suit fits his slim, toned form perfectly. Mycroft blinks, staring resolutely at the floor.

“D’you want a drink?” asks Jen, squeezing Mycroft’s arm. “I could go for a Butterbeer.”

He nods, and Jen gives him a quick push towards the buffet table.

“You alright?” she grins, as they open their Butterbeers. “Thought you might fall over for a minute there.”

Mycroft gives a surprised huff of amusement. “Am I so obvious?” he asks, with an edge of real concern.

She looks up at him, head on one side. “Honestly? I _can_  tell, but I know Greg pretty well – I dunno, Mycroft, you’ve got a good poker face. People know – think – you’re not into girls so maybe they assume – I mean, he’s pretty handsome, the stupid git –” she grins. “But since he’s here with Lena and everything, they prob’ly won’t think about it much.” She gulps her Butterbeer. “As if _she’s_  not gay as they come,” she adds, laughingly.

Mycroft sighs. “Are you – here with anyone?” he asks diffidently, unsure whether this transgresses the boundaries of the comradeship they have built up.

Jen’s ears turn slightly pink, and her gaze darts down to the floor, then quickly across the room. “There’s someone I’m – I dunno. Maybe. But we’re not here – together. We’ll see.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “I am sorry,” he says, a little stiffly. “I did not mean to –”

Jen smiles at him. “Don’t be daft,” she says. “I don’t mind.” She sips her Butterbeer. “Anyway. Greg says you’re an amazing dancer.”

Mycroft fights the urge to look over at Greg, at the bright silver of his hair across the hall. “I –”

“Go on,” smiles Jen. “Give me a dance later,” and Mycroft can’t help nodding and smiling in return.

“If we go back over there,” says Jen, “are you going to be able to talk properly and not go bright red?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but hesitates. “Probably,” he says, drily.

Jen snorts a laugh, and threads her arm through his again. “Come on, you idiot. Let’s go and sit down.”

As Mycroft and Jen settle onto a couple of cushions, Marcus Dedworth and his date, a sixth-year Gryffindor called Ariane Westenberg, come to sit down too. Jen compliments Ariane on her dress, and Marcus leans over to Mycroft.

“Thanks for those notes,” he says, casually. “For the Transfiguration exam. I owe you one.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “It was – not a problem,” he says, a little stiffly.

Marcus smiles. “How’d you find it, in the end?” he asks, “the exam? I thought it was alright.”

Mycroft raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I was not expecting quite so much on untransfiguration,” he says, tentatively.

“Oh Merlin, tell me about it,” chuckles Marcus. “I thought it’d be one question at most. It was three in the end, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft nods, wracking his brains for more things to say.

“Not looking forward to the results,” sighs Marcus, draining his Butterbeer. “Still, we’ve got a week or so yet, can’t wait to just do nothing for a bit.” He looks up as Greg, Lena and Alannah Deverill join them, folding themselves onto cushions and into beanbags. He grins as Greg passes him another bottle of Butterbeer.

“Mycroft?” says Greg, and Mycroft’s heart does an ungainly flip-flop in his chest. Reluctantly, he looks up into Greg’s dark eyes.

Greg holds out a bottle. “Need another?”

Mycroft weighs the bottle he has in his hand for a moment, taking a breath and getting his words in the right order. “Not yet, thank you,” he says quietly.

Greg gives him a soft half-smile, and passes it to Lena instead.

Mycroft does not miss the way she lifts her bottle slightly before she drinks, gaze locked on a girl in a little group of Ravenclaws across the dancefloor.

Jen asks everyone about their summer plans, prompting groans of misery from the seventh-years.

“We don’t bloody know, do we?” asks Marcus, only half-joking. “We could be starting jobs, or – I dunno – trying to do retakes or something,” he adds, grimly.

Jen rolls her eyes. “God, you’re all so _boring!_ I’m going to Australia for a month,” she grins. “My brother and his wife just had twins, so my parents and I are staying nearby to see them.”

Alannah has family in Melbourne too, it transpires, so the conversation spins out from there – café and museum recommendations for a city half a world away. Mycroft finishes his Butterbeer, quietly, in sips. As soon as he places the bottle neatly in front of him, Greg passes him another. Their fingers brush, an electric shock of sensation that almost makes Mycroft shiver.

Greg’s eyes meet Mycroft’s with a spark of dark fire. Mycroft looks quickly away.

“Dance?” asks Jen, holding out a hand to Mycroft. He smiles at her, grateful for the distraction. As they get up, Lena also slips her arm into Greg’s.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s see these alleged skills.”

Mycroft can hear them laughing and joking behind him and Jen, and suppresses a stab of jealousy. _Unreasonable,_  he chides himself.

Jen is hardly a practised dancer, but not ungraceful; she learns quickly how not to step on his toes as he leads her in a rough approximation of a waltz. As Mycroft watches Greg take Lena’s hands, every part of him aches with the fierce wish to be led. Instead, he spins Jen through several dances, and she laughs delightedly as he starts to show her slightly more difficult footwork.

“You __are__ a great dancer,” she laughs, as they step off the dancefloor for a drink. “Looks like you taught Greg well, too.”

He’s spinning Alannah Deverill around the floor now, her long black braided hair swinging behind her as they turn. Mycroft glances quickly away, breathless.

Jen’s eyes are full of sympathy. “You know it’s obvious he’s mad about you, don’t you?” she says, a little offhandedly, and Mycroft is surprised to recognise the symptoms of his own awkwardness and uncertainty in her.

He looks unhappily down at the floor, unsure how to reply. He is profoundly grateful for her kindness, but discussing emotional matters is so far outside his scope of experience – he gives her a quick, tight smile and hopes that his eyes will adequately express his gratitude.

“Um –” a meek voice intrudes on their fragile silence. Cordelia Smethwyck smiles nervously at him. “Are you – busy?” she asks.

Mycroft exchanges a quick look with Jen, the corners of whose mouth are quirking in a suspiciously amused manner.

“No,” says Mycroft, cautiously. “Is there something that needs my attention, or –” he looks around at the Great Hall, half-expecting there to have been some disaster in the arrangements.

“Oh, no, no – I meant –” she blushes, then gives him a nervous smile. “D’you want to dance?”

Mycroft’s brain goes blank, and the situation is not aided by the laughter leaping in Jen’s mischievous eyes.

“I’ll hold your drink,” she says, unhelpfully, grinning at him.

Mycroft glares at her, but hands it over, shocked enough not to be able to think of an alternative course of action. He and Cordelia walk rather awkwardly onto the dancefloor.

As they dance, the music slows, and Cordelia draws a little closer.

Greg catches Mycroft’s eye, biting his bottom lip. For long moments they watch one another, and the music and chatter in the hall no longer register with Mycroft.

When the song ends, Mycroft leads Cordelia to the edge of the dancefloor and smiles at her, as naturally as he can manage. Her Ravenclaw friends claim her, a giggling group drawing her into the circle for a faster dance.

Mycroft stands at the buffet table, back to the room. Someone holds out a plate. “Conquest?” asks Greg, lightly, but Mycroft can hear the same strain in his voice as all those months ago, at New Year.

“An unplanned situation,” he says, calmly. “Not at all aided by Jen.”

Greg can’t help grinning. “I’m sure,” he says, with an unwilling chuckle. He lowers his voice. “When this is over – will you –” he bites his bottom lip. “Come to the Room with me,” he murmurs in a rush. “Please.” The expression in his eyes is oddly vulnerable.

“Of course.” Mycroft’s voice is just a whisper.

“Eat something,” mutters Greg, with a lopsided grin. “You’ll need it.”

Mycroft gives him a mock-reproving glance, only just avoiding a smile in return. “Gregory,” he murmurs.

*

When Mycroft opens the door into the Room of Requirement, his first thought is that something has gone wrong, that he has ended up in the wrong place. But then Greg steps forward, nerves written all over his face.

Mycroft looks around. Bigger than their usual bedroom, it looks more like Greg’s dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, though with only one large four-poster bed. At this end of the room, cushions and blankets are arranged in a soft, warm pile in front of a crackling fire.

Greg pushes his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking back a little on his feet.

Mycroft looks up, and above them is a ceiling like that of the Great Hall – the summer night sky, full of stars. Above head height float hundreds of candles. He gasps, quietly, and looks at Greg.

Greg hunches his shoulders a little, hands still in his pockets. “Is it – okay?”

Mycroft cannot help smiling. He takes two steps closer. “How did you –”

Greg shrugs slightly. “Well – I – I mean I’m not exactly sure,” he says, with a slight smile. “But I thought really specifically about what I wanted, and –” he stops, looking up at Mycroft. “Dance with me?” he asks, holding out his hands.

Mycroft can feel himself blush as Greg draws him close, a hand in the small of his back. He struggles to regulate his breathing, the sheer _nearness_ of Greg after a week apart, the knowledge that _he did this, he did this for me – for us –_

Greg looks up, eyes soft. Candlelight reflects in them from above. Mycroft cannot help dipping his head and taking a chaste, gentle kiss. When he pulls back, Greg smiles at him.

They sway, slowly, together in the candlelight. Mycroft rests his cheek against Greg’s bright silver hair.

“You are not –” he hesitates. “Cordelia asked me to dance and I was unable to think of a reason to refuse –”

Greg pulls back, and holds him still. His hands find Mycroft’s hipbones, slipping under his jacket. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says. “Not going to lie, I was jealous as fuck, but you didn’t do anything wrong. I was dancing too.” His hands roam up Mycroft’s sides and over his chest. He sighs with relief. “God – just being able to do this again –” he looks up to Mycroft and steps in close.

“I know,” murmurs Mycroft. He wraps his arms around Greg’s waist.

“Come and curl up by the fire,” murmurs Greg, drawing him along by both hands.

Mycroft smiles. They stretch out on the cushions, firelight and warmth washing over them.

Greg sits up, kicks off his shoes, and slowly unlaces and draws Mycroft’s off too. He winds their legs together and lays his head on Mycroft’s chest. “I brought some Butterbeer,” he murmurs, nodding at his backpack next to the bed. “D’you want one?”

“I am fine at the moment, thank you,” says Mycroft. “I have drunk a number of them this evening.” He feels Greg smile against his chest.

He runs a hand gently through Greg’s hair. “Gregory –” he murmurs, then hesitates, his chest tight. “I – you should know – you look –” he takes a breath. Greg lifts his head and looks at him, eyes wide. “You look stunning,” finishes Mycroft, flushing.

Greg catches his breath. “I love you,” he says, and his eyes widen as he hears his own words. He bites his lip, colour flooding into his cheeks. “I – I’m sorry –”

“I love you too,” says Mycroft, in a rush. A tight knot in his chest seems to loosen slightly.

For a moment, they simply look at one another. When Greg grins, his whole face beams, his eyes full of firelight.

Greg pushes himself up and straddles Mycroft’s hips, curling over to kiss him, fingers tangling in his hair.

Mycroft runs the tip of his tongue gently along Greg’s top lip. Greg smiles into the kiss, then opens for him, biting his bottom lip and groaning slightly as the kiss deepens.

Mycroft tightens his hands on Greg’s hipbones.

“God, I’ve wanted to say that for months,” murmurs Greg, flushed, eyes bright. “I love you,” he says again, grinning. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Mycroft cannot help a huff of laughter. He pulls Greg down for another kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs, as they part. His chest seems to swell. He feels light, somehow.

“Myc –” murmurs Greg, hands under Mycroft’s jacket, on his chest, wrapping around his waist. “I need you.”

Mycroft reaches up and pushes at Greg’s jacket, off his shoulders and down his arms. He throws it away across the floor and Greg laughs.

“I have to return that to the shop, you know.”

Mycroft huffs mock-exasperation into Greg’s neck, kissing and nipping at his soft, golden skin. “I’ll iron it for you.”

Greg nibbles Mycroft’s earlobe. “Of course you know ironing spells.”

“You do not, Gregory?”

Greg just laughs, and Mycroft can’t help smiling too. He sits up fully, Greg straddling his lap. Arms wrapped around Greg’s waist, they kiss until Mycroft is breathless.

Greg places a chain of kisses from the corner of Mycroft’s mouth along his jaw to his ear. Mycroft concentrates on getting Greg’s bow tie and collar undone, following each inch of revealed skin with his lips, and the tip of his tongue.

“Myc,” murmurs Greg, fingers in Mycroft’s hair.

“Mmm?” Mycroft’s lips brush along Greg’s collarbone as he undoes button after button.

But Greg does not seem to have an answer. He rests his head on Mycroft’s, his breathing ragged as Mycroft finishes undoing his shirt and starts on his belt.

Greg groans as Mycroft wraps his fingers around his hard, straining cock.

Mycroft finds himself pushed down onto the cushions. He protests as Greg starts to get up, holding onto his hipbones.

Greg grins at him. “Hang on,” he says, mischievously. “Back in a second, I promise. Just – stay there. Exactly there.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, propping himself up on one elbow. Greg laughs as he makes his way to the bedside table and returns with a bottle of lube. Straddling Mycroft’s hips again, he leans forward and kisses him, grinding their hard cocks together through layers of fabric.

Mycroft cannot suppress a gasp. “Gregory –”

“Mmm?”

Mycroft attempts not to blush, but his eyes cut to the bottle of lube lying next to them on the cushions.

Greg flushes. “Nothing – not really anything – more – than what we’ve done, I mean –” he says, haltingly.

Mycroft runs one hand down Greg’s chest, trusting.

When Greg undoes Mycroft’s fly and wraps a hand around his cock, Mycroft goes to unfasten his bow tie, feeling a little silly in full evening dress.

“No,” says Greg, pinning Mycroft’s hand playfully above his head. Mycroft thrills to the feel of it, breath catching in his throat.

Greg takes a palmful of lube and allows it to warm a little. After a few moments he starts, slowly, to stroke Mycroft, and Mycroft has to struggle not to groan at the warm, tight, delicious sensation.

“Let me –” he groans, reaching for Greg, but Greg pushes him back. Instead, Mycroft feels Greg wrap his fingers around both their lengths. He gasps, and looks down – Greg’s hand around them both, stroking slowly – _Merlin, fuck –_

“Gregory,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against Greg’s. Greg’s left hand has woven with his own right, still restraining it above his head.

“Yes, gorgeous?” murmurs Greg.

“You –” Mycroft is not quite sure how to express what he means. He wants to say it again and again: _I love you. I love you._ Instead, he tips them forward into a kiss, slow and desperate, tongues and teeth and soft gasps as Greg’s hand tightens, speeds up a little.

The feeling of Greg’s steel-hard length pressed against him, the slide of the lube and the friction of Greg’s palm – Mycroft’s head spins and his breath catches, and Greg’s breaths are groans, half-murmured words –  
”Okay?” asks Greg. “Is it – is this –” he bites Mycroft’s bottom lip, and Mycroft gasps.

“Gregory,” he murmurs. “Yes. Yes.”

“I wanted you,” groans Greg, in a whisper. “I wanted you all the time, downstairs, at the ball. From the moment I fucking saw you. You look –” he nibbles the skin of Mycroft’s neck, just above the collar, “– amazing in that suit.” His voice is tight, taut with need. “And watching you dance – with other people –” Greg’s hand tightens in Mycroft’s, pressing him further down into the cushions. His touch on their cocks is urgent, relentless. “My Mycroft,” he murmurs, into Mycroft’s ear. “My Myc.”

Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter. _Mine. Yours. I am, Gregory._  His stomach tightens as he realises that Greg has started to tip his hips, to thrust slightly, fucking his hand, creating extra friction between their lengths. His rushed breath in is a groan, and Greg kisses him, hard.

He thrusts, too, curling his hips, and Greg hums his appreciation into the kiss. “Yes,” he whispers, against Mycroft’s lips. “Yes.”

Mycroft can't stop himself, now: he thrusts up as Greg thrusts down, together through the tight circle of Greg's fist. Mycroft clenches his fingers in Greg’s, tipping his head back against the pillow.

Greg licks and nibbles his way up Mycroft's neck to his earlobe, teeth and lips demanding as he nuzzles and kisses –

Mycroft runs his hand down Greg's back, bemused still to find his dress shirt, the fabric _wrong_ when he needs skin, only Greg's golden, beautiful, soft skin. He slips his hand below the waistband of Greg's trousers, fingers clasping at his buttock, pulling Greg closer against him, breaking the established rhythm of their thrusts into a more intense, desperate rocking –

Greg groans a laugh, breathless, “darlin’ – I can't – I'm going to –”

_Darlin’._ Mycroft bites his bottom lip, throws his head back on the cushion and moans helplessly as he starts to come. “Gregory – oh –”

Through the overwhelming pleasure, a fine thread of pain – Greg's teeth against his shoulder, biting down as he comes, fist a blur between them, driving them both onwards, further over the edge –

Gradually, Greg's strokes slow, and he pushes their foreheads together, coaxing them through the last waves of pleasure.

When Mycroft opens his eyes, Greg's dark brown gaze is intense. He is flushed, pink-cheeked, lips swollen and red. Mycroft kisses him, softly.

Greg wipes his hand on his shirt, and grins. “Hope you know how to magically do laundry, too.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Thankfully Mrs Hudson was most instructive,” he says, surveying the ruin of their suits.

Greg squeezes his hand, and gently unlaces their fingers. “Sorry,” he murmurs quietly, kissing Mycroft's fingers. “I kind of – crushed your hand a bit. You didn't mind?” he asks, a little sheepishly.

Mycroft flushes, letting his eyes flutter closed. “No,” he murmurs.

He feels Greg curl close, lips soft against his cheek. “Hey…” he whispers. “You sure? I didn’t mean to be too –”

“No, I –” Mycroft can feel his cheeks turning redder, and screws his eyes shut. He clears his throat slightly.

He feels Greg shift over him, and knows that he is being observed. Greg's fingers stroke gently through his hair. “You – liked that?” he asks tentatively.

Still blushing, eyes still closed, Mycroft gives a terse nod.

“Okay,” whispers Greg. He nuzzles a spot below Mycroft's ear. “That's fine. Good.” He tips his weight off Mycroft, settling along his side, winding their legs together. “Hey.”

Reluctantly, Mycroft opens his eyes. Greg's eyes are dark, flickering with firelight.

“Never be embarrassed,” whispers Greg.

Mycroft fixes his gaze on the collar of Greg's shirt, unsure how to answer. Greg kisses him, slowly, fingers softly stroking his chest.

For a while, Mycroft simply watches the patterns of light and shadow that the leaping flames make across Greg's face.

“We can't sleep here, gorgeous,” whispers Greg.

“Hmm,” hums Mycroft, one long finger stroking down the side of Greg's neck. “It is warm.”

“So will bed be,” smiles Greg, into a kiss.

*

Mycroft wakes at five-thirty, starkly aware of the room, of the grey dawn light. His heart is beating as if he had been running. He turns onto his back and stares up at the canopy of the four-poster. Next to him, Greg stirs slightly, muttering. Mycroft breathes deeply, attempting to calm himself.

“Hey,” says Greg, after a few minutes.

Mycroft turns his head, startled. “Gregory – did I wake you? My apologies.”

“Think so. But s’alright. You okay? Why you awake? S’early, isn't it?”

Mycroft suppresses a sigh, and nods. “It is not important, Gregory. Sleep.”

There's a moment of quiet, and then Greg blinks, deliberately, shifts and yawns. “No,” he mumbles stubbornly. “’S’up? Mycroft?”

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. “In truth, I am not exactly certain.”

Greg curls around him, and rests his chin on Mycroft's chest. “You're worrying about the future again.”

Mycroft bites his lip.

“I was thinking,” says Greg. “I think you need to talk to McGonagall.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow flicks up.

“No, I mean – she must have contacts at the Ministry, right? And she was in the Order of the Phoenix, she's made a lot of changes at Hogwarts, if there's anyone who –”

“I agree with you, Gregory,” says Mycroft, soothingly. “I – I cannot take the risk that my father finds a way to place me in a position at the Ministry which makes it impossible for me to use my family’s knowledge and contacts as I wish. I need to ensure that I find allies.”

Greg nods, slightly. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “You should try and see her tomorrow.”

“Today,” says Mycroft, with a slight smile.

“Nah,” says Greg, pulling Mycroft close. “It’s still the bloody night. Tomorrow.”

As Mycroft curls into Greg’s protective embrace, Greg murmurs, “I’ve fixed up to see my family later – so I won’t be around. We can catch up later though, at the lake, maybe.”

Mycroft drifts somewhere between sleep and waking, warm in Greg’s arms. _I am not invited to see Gregory’s family this time. Perhaps they did not like me? Or perhaps he does not wish me to meet his father?_

*

“Is the Headmistress in her office?” asks Mycroft politely of the gargoyle who guards the entrance.

“I don’t know, do I,” it says, truculently. “Why don’t you go and see, _Head Boy.”_

Mycroft sighs, very slightly. “Hot toddy,” he says, and the staircase carries him up to the office door. Rather more tentatively than usual, he knocks.

“Come,” says the Headmistress’ voice, after a few moments. When he opens the door, she looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Holmes. What is it?”

One step into the room. “Headmistress. I –” he takes a breath, and fixes his eyes on the floor. “I wondered if I might speak with you.”

There’s a pause. He listens to the humming quiet of the ancient room, to the mumbling of a sleepy portrait several frames away.

“Very well, Holmes,” she says guardedly. “Have a seat.”

He takes the chair he had sat in last time, when Sherlock was here. He knots his fingers together in his lap. McGonagall sits very straight, attention sharply focused.

Mycroft has no idea where to begin, but the silence is unbearable.

“After Hogwarts,” he tries, fixing his gaze on his interlinked fingers, “– perhaps you know that I am interested in working for the Ministry –”

“Yes,” says McGonagall, in her usual clipped manner. “And I am sure that your hard work will have helped you towards it.”

Mycroft gives a half-shake of the head and stares at his hands. _You are unimportant. A tiny cog in a huge machine. What you do next will make so little difference. All this time, so many years, and when it comes to it all you want to do is cry. Weak._

“Carry on, Holmes,” she says, a little more gently. “I interrupted you.”

“I have wished to – work in areas of the Ministry where –” he takes a silent breath. “Where my family background might be of use.”

The busy silence of the room feels stifling. At last, Mycroft dares a glance up at McGonagall. She is watching him closely, head tipped slightly to one side.

“Your family background cannot fail to be of use to you, Holmes.”

He grips his hands together. “Of use – to the Ministry, Headmistress.”

There is another pause. When she speaks, her voice is sharp. “Why?”

“I am – aware that things have not changed as much as they might have.”

The side of her mouth twitches with wry amusement. “You’re not wrong, Holmes.”

Mycroft swallows, his mouth dry. “My parents – my family have made me aware of certain things which could be – useful in the effort for reform.”

She watches him for a long, silent moment. “And your motivation?” she asks, bluntly.

Mycroft blinks. _Because it revolts me. The hypocrisy and the lies, the threats, the lusting after power; the almost sensual pleasure of those who toy with others, for fun and for profit. I have seen it all, from the inside out, and it turns my stomach._ “It is – unfair,” is all he can find to say.

She shifts in her chair, eyes appraising. “You resisted your father’s Legilimency,” she says, calmly.

He can feel himself blush, staring fixedly at the edge of the desk. He presses his lips together, and nods, once.

“Does he use it often?” she asks, and despite her matter-of-fact tone, he can hear an edge of sympathy. He shakes his head.

“You have had training in Occlumency.”

“Yes,” he returns, quietly.

“And Sherlock?”

“No. I believe he may be a natural Occlumens.”

“I see.” She clasps her hands in front of her on the desk. At the other end of the office, a clock strikes an erratic twenty-three minutes past. “I’d need to talk to some people at the Ministry,” she says, briskly. Then, more kindly, “they’d ask you to let a professional Legilimens see you.”

Mycroft swallows and nods. “I understand.”

“Independent,” she says. “Not a close colleague.”

“Yes.” His stomach clenches. _They would not trust me. I should have expected it._

The quiet spins out while she observes him. “Very well, Holmes,” she says. “We’ll talk again.”

As the office door closes behind him, Mycroft exhales, slowly.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft wouldn’t say he’s exactly _waiting_  for Gregory to return, but he does walk slowly around the lake, eyes straying frequently to the path from Hogsmeade. Eventually, he settles with a book under a tree, the bark of the trunk hard against his spine. It is warm, even though it’s evening. The light is golden.

Despite frequent glances from under his eyelashes, Greg still manages to surprise him when he arrives.

“Alright?” he asks, standing a couple of feet away.

Mycroft glances quickly up, then around at the grounds, where numerous groups of students lounge on the grass. He ruthlessly suppresses a smile. “Quite well, thank you Gregory,” he says. “An enjoyable day with your family?”

Greg’s casual body language does not change, but his voice is quiet and urgent. “Meet me in the Room. Fifteen minutes.”

“Gregory, we cannot. Not two nights in a row. We risk discovery as it is.”

Greg shakes his head, slightly. “We won’t stay the night. I just – I need to talk to you. Properly. Not having to pretend the whole time we’re talking about – fucking Quidditch, or something.”

Mycroft cannot help a dry huff of amusement. “Anyone who knows me even the slightest amount would certainly not assume we are discussing Quidditch, Gregory.”

Greg stifles a grin. “Idiot,” he says, under his breath. “Room, fifteen minutes.”

And before Mycroft can reply, he’s walking away towards the castle.

*

The Room has returned to normal when Mycroft joins Greg there. Greg grabs him and pulls him into a hug. “I love you,” he says, with a relieved sigh, as Mycroft hugs him back.

Mycroft’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he tips his head to pull Greg into a kiss. “I love you too,” he murmurs, the words both natural and strange on his lips.

Greg places kisses along Mycroft’s jaw and slowly down his neck, walking him gradually backwards until his back is against the wall. Mycroft allows his head to fall back against it and loses himself in sensation.

At last both Greg’s hands find his face, and Mycroft opens his eyes. Greg kisses his nose, and grins. “Come and sit down,” he says, pulling him to the bed.

Mycroft follows him, and they sit cross-legged on the coverlet. Greg takes Mycroft’s hands and pulls him a little closer.

“How was it? With McGonagall?”

Mycroft fixes his eyes on Greg’s knee, on the slightly faded patch of his jeans. “It was – productive, I believe,” he says, cautiously. “She will speak to a contact at the Ministry.” He bites his lip, silently.

Greg squeezes his hand. “What, gorgeous?”

Mycroft presses his lips together, hesitating. “It would involve a – test by a professional Legilimens,” he says quietly.

Greg blows out a breath, and nods slightly. “Right. So they’d find out about us, then.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod. “Apparently it would not be a colleague. Someone independent.”

“So they’d just see if –”

“If I was lying about my interest in aiding the Ministry, yes.”

Greg bites his bottom lip, glumly. “Well.” He brightens a little. “Maybe they can just – find out what they need through Legilimency? You won’t have to be – you know. Involved too much.”

Mycroft blinks, and takes a breath. “I have no way of knowing whether this ‘independent’ Legilimens will in fact be independent of my father's influence.”

Greg's eyes are wide and dark. He makes a rather hopeless gesture. “Fuck,” he says, after a minute. “Can you…could you ask her about it? I mean, if he finds out about us, then –” he blows out a long breath. “Did she say when she’d have more news?” 

Mycroft shakes his head. Cold, thick dread lies heavy in his stomach.

Greg frees one hand and cups Mycroft’s cheek with it. “Hey.”

Mycroft looks up. Greg’s eyes are soft. “Kiss, please,” he says, pulling Mycroft in. It is a full stop, or a pause of sorts. _There is nothing to be gained by picking endlessly at this problem, in my few minutes alone with Gregory._

“And you, Gregory?” asks Mycroft, when they part. “A good day?”

Greg smiles, eyes crinkling with warmth at the memory. “Yeah, really nice. Lunch at Em and Dave’s. Aunt Mae was there as well, and Dad and Julie. They don’t seem to’ve gone off each other during the cruise.”

Mycroft gives a small huff of amusement.

Greg’s expression changes a little, and he bites the side of his lip. “So,” he says, and hesitates.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Gregory?”

“I – I hope this isn’t too much or something but I – need to tell you.” Greg clears his throat slightly. “I told them about us.”

Mycroft blinks, several times. Everything seems to have gone quiet. The fingers of his right hand are still tangled with Greg’s, but his left hand folds a small section of the duvet cover, over and over.

“Myc?” asks Greg, hand on his leg. “I’m sorry, it’s just – I really wanted to –”

Mycroft cannot imagine _wanting_ to tell his family anything. He blinks again.

Greg shifts, kneels up in front of him, takes Mycroft’s face between both his hands. “Hey, gorgeous. Look at me.” When Mycroft at last makes eye contact, Greg smiles gently at him. “They’d assumed we were since Christmas, anyway,” he whispers, with an amused eye-roll.

Mycroft’s voice is quiet. “Your father – he was not –”

Greg tips his head to the side for a moment, enquiringly, and then there's a quick spasm of something that looks rather like pain in the tuck of his bottom lip, in the way his brows draw down for a moment. “No – Mycroft – gorgeous. He's – they're _all_  happy. For me. For us.” He splays the fingers of one hand on Mycroft's chest, over his heart. “Dad wants to meet you, but there’s no pressure.”

Mycroft cannot quite order his thoughts. After a few moments, he realises that Greg looks stricken, his dark eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” says Greg.

“No – Gregory,” Mycroft blurts out. “I apologise. I – am happy that they are –” he looks down at the duvet, ashamed of his own incoherence. _Gregory wanted to tell his family. About you. Us._ His stomach curls with nerves and pleasure.

“You sure that’s alright, then?” asks Greg, winding their fingers together.

Mycroft looks up through his eyelashes. “Thank you,” he says, quietly.

Greg’s eyes are soft as he shakes his head.

*

The Slytherin seventh-year dormitory is slowly clearing. Not everyone stays for the final banquet of term, especially in the upper years; family plans, summer internships and jobs await. Mycroft finds himself able to relax a little more. When Loxias leaves, he sleeps peacefully in Slytherin Dungeon for the first time in months.

By the last week of term, the only other student left in his dormitory is Terry Denbright. They do not talk, particularly, but neither bothers the other.

One evening, before dinner, Terry stands up from his bed and walks irresolutely closer to Mycroft’s. Only when he hears Terry clear his throat does Mycroft realise, and look up from his book.

“Listen, Holmes, I –” Terry hesitates, voice slightly strangled-sounding. He takes a breath. “I – want to apologise to you. For – going along with the others. With Armand – Loxias – especially.”

Mycroft can’t stop his eyebrows from rising. Surprise courses through him. He attempts to think of a correct form of words, of acknowledgement, but Denbright pushes on.

“I know it’s been pretty shit for you – this year – and I – I should’ve stood up to it. Them. And Loxias going on about you being gay – that was shit, too.” He shifts his feet uncomfortably on the stone-flagged floor, and clears his throat again. “Sorry.” At last, he makes fleeting eye contact. He chews his bottom lip.

Mycroft opens his mouth, and closes it again. He tries again. “Thank you.” He isn’t sure what else he can say. He feels oddly as though he wants to cry, and presses his lips together. “I appreciate that,” he adds, when Denbright does not turn away.

Terry blinks, watching Mycroft’s expression, and eventually his awkward frown relaxes a little. He sighs, and shifts from one foot to the other. “Why’d you never tell your Dad?” he asks, bluntly, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands. “’Specially Loxias. His Dad’s…” he trails off, and shrugs. “Thought your Dad would’ve put a stop to it.”

Mycroft presses his lips together and shakes his head, once, breathing against the bitterness of lingering resentment. “I prefer to manage my own affairs.”

Terry nods, and runs a hand through his straight, sandy hair. “Yeah.” He looks down at the floor again. “Well – like I say. Sorry.”

Mycroft shakes his head slightly, focusing on his book again, attempting to bring the conversation to a close. “Thank you.”

*

With so many students gone from the dormitories, Greg and Mycroft find it hard to stop themselves meeting in the Room of Requirement every night.

“To be honest, I’d’ve thought your Mum and Dad’d expect you back by now,” says Greg, curled around Mycroft on their bed. “After New Year…” he shrugs.

Mycroft half-shakes his head. “They are aware that the Head Boy is expected to attend the final banquet,” he says, calmly. The truth is that his parents do not concern themselves overmuch with their sons until they return to the house. He needs to stay to ensure that Sherlock makes it to the end of term without incident, and onto the Hogwarts Express. Mycroft runs his palm, flat, up Greg’s side, the thin cotton of his shirt the only barrier between them.

Greg stretches a little, like a cat, arching his back. “Mmm,” he hums, nestling his head into the crook of Mycroft’s shoulder. “I love summer.”

The way Greg’s lips settle against the skin of Mycroft’s neck make the rest of his meaning clear: _because I can spend more time with you._

“When do you return home?” asks Mycroft, tentatively.

Greg gives him a lopsided grin and a slight eye-roll. “Staying as long as you do. Idiot.”

Mycroft flushes slightly, and nuzzles his cheek against Greg’s silver-bright hair. After a moment, he takes a slip of parchment from his trouser pocket, and passes it to Greg.

“‘7pm. My office’,” reads Greg. He turns on his side and props his head on his hand, looking up at Mycroft. “McGonagall?”

Mycroft nods. “It arrived this morning.”

Greg bites his bottom lip, long eyelashes sweeping his cheeks. “Okay. Well, glad something’s happening before the end of term.” His voice is falsely bright.

Mycroft’s heart speeds, nervousness about the meeting ahead mingled with a sense that something is wrong. “Gregory,” he murmurs.

Greg does not look up.

Mycroft caresses Greg’s jawline, fingertips gentle. He does not push or force, but it’s enough to make Greg look up and meet his gaze, all the same.

_“Grégoire…”_

Greg sighs, and takes a breath. “’M’just…’s’all going to start happening, soon,” he mutters, looking fixedly at the duvet cover. “All the…” he gestures vaguely. “Ministry stuff. ’M’worried for you,” he says, still not looking up. “Your Dad – and – I don’t know, the Legilimency, the people at the Ministry…” he shrugs one shoulder, and risks a brief glance up to Mycroft. He gives a quick, miserable half-smile. “Just wish we could get away from it. Stay here, like this. Just us.”

Mycroft sighs. Hesitantly, he takes Greg’s hand. Greg weaves their fingers together more surely.

“I apologise, Gregory,” says Mycroft. “Truly.” Greg is moving to shake his head, to dismiss the apology, but Mycroft squeezes his hand. “I too, wish that we could spend the summer together in peace,” he murmurs. “But this is the only chance I have to –” he hesitates. _We have said ‘I love you’. Is it still too soon?_ “To avoid –” he says, falteringly.

“Getting married off,” says Greg, with bitter humour. “Yeah.”

Mycroft nods. _Losing you. I meant losing you. But perhaps it would be presumptuous to assume that a year from now –_

“Can I ask,” says Greg, voice falsely light, “why – I mean, I’ve never found the wizarding world _especially_ homophobic? There are families who are – like at home, Muggles, I mean –” he picks at the duvet, and sighs, clearly frustrated. “Why a woman?” he summarises, at last.

Mycroft blinks. “I am unsure of whether my parents are aware of my orientation,” he says, cautiously, after a moment. Greg’s eyes are drawn to his, dark and full of fire. “Perhaps. But you must appreciate that their concern is, first and foremost, dynastic.” He swallows. “I am expected to marry a woman of pure-blood descent so that we can continue the Holmes line.”

Greg looks away, frown etched deep between his brows. “You can do all that stuff with a man,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.

“Gregory…” Mycroft’s hand hesitates, curving millimetres above Greg’s shoulder. “My parents are –” he gives up on that attempt. “I suspect that – _arrangements_  outside the marriage are – probably not unexpected,” he says, carefully. “But they must never threaten the integrity of the family name.”

Greg’s mouth twists. “Right.” He still looks stubbornly at the pillow.

Mycroft’s stomach is heavy. “I wish to avoid all this,” he says, and he can hear the note of pleading in his own voice. “To free myself from that particular obligation.”

Greg still doesn’t meet his eyes properly, but he finds Mycroft’s hand with his own. “I know,” he mutters, gruffly. “’M’sorry.” He bends his head, and kisses the back of Mycroft’s hand.

*

Mycroft lifts his hand to knock at the Headmistress’ office door, hesitates, and adjusts his tie instead. His stomach squirms uncomfortably. Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes a deep breath, and knocks firmly.

“Come in,” says the Headmistress’ voice, at once.

Mycroft pulls his shoulders back, and steps into the room.

The usual humming quiet greets him, portraits blinking, fire crackling, magical instruments whirring; McGonagall stands up, behind her desk, and nods curtly at him.

Two people rise from the sofa. An older woman steps forward and holds out her hand; short black hair shot through with grey, severely bobbed and tucked behind her ears. She does not wear robes; jeans, a black t-shirt, worn leather boots and a tweed blazer make up her outfit. She hardly reaches Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Holmes. Yasue Tanezawa,” says McGonagall, as Mycroft takes the woman’s hand. Her handshake is firm and brief. “Head of the Ministry’s Internal Affairs department.”

“Isiah Morrow,” says Ms Tanezawa, as the other occupant of the sofa steps forward. “One of my team.”

Morrow wears robes, and thick black leather boots. His features are androgynous, generous; thick black dreadlocks coil atop his head, strands of blue amid the rest. There’s nothing, Mycroft realises as he takes the proffered hand, in his dress to indicate a gender. The wizard’s eyes are as soft and as deep brown as Greg’s.

Mycroft doesn’t know either of them, which he can only assume is a good thing.

McGonagall steps out from behind her desk, and claps her hands softly together. “Sit,” she says, indicating the sofa and chairs. She crosses to the door and opens it smoothly as a small House Elf staggers to the stop of the spiral staircase with a tea tray. “Thank you, Mirabel,” she says, as the elf places it on the coffee table.

Mycroft takes an armchair as Tanezawa and Morrow resume their places on the sofa. McGonagall takes a chair between them, and flicks her wand to stir the pot of tea. “Yasue?” she asks, curtly.

“Please, Minerva,” she sighs. “It has been a long day.”

Both Ministry workers gladly accept a cup of tea. Mycroft takes one too, fingers closing gratefully around the comforting warmth of the fine china teacup.

“Now,” says McGonagall, laying her teaspoon on the saucer with precision. “Yasue. Please.”

Mycroft watches the Head of Internal Affairs as she sits up straight and crosses her legs. “Holmes. Mycroft, if I may?” she asks, briskly. He nods. “Thank you. I understand from Minerva that you have – information you are prepared to share.”

Mycroft swallows. “Yes.”

“Why?” her tone is innocuous, but her black eyes pin him.

“I have – seen the workings of the Ministry from my family’s perspective for some years. I am aware that – change is needed.”

She raises an eyebrow, wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yes. Well.” She regards him coolly as she takes a sip of tea. “Minerva warned you that your motivations will be investigated by a Ministry Legilimens.”

Mycroft nods. “Yes.” He hesitates, the surface of his tea shivering a little as he weighs his words. “I – do not wish to seem –” he clears his throat, and the words come in a rush. “It must be someone that my father does not –”

Tanezawa gestures, curtly. “Understood.” She raises an eyebrow. “I hear that you have taken Occlumency lessons.”

Mycroft’s heart aches. _But I could not resist a Ministry Legilimens_ – “To no level of proficiency, I am afraid,” he says, as steadily as he can.

She watches him with sharp eyes. “I see.” Quiet falls for the length of her sip of tea. “And what do you want from this, Mycroft?” she adds, baldly.

The question is spoken so pleasantly, so calmly, that it takes Mycroft by surprise. He takes a breath, chest tight. _Not to have to live the life that my parents have already chosen for me._

“To be – to be instrumental in changing the Ministry. To help actively,” he returns, as coolly as possible.

“A job, then.”

He blinks, and sits up a little straighter in the armchair. “One which cannot be – of use to my family.”

She sits back, and watches him with raised eyebrows. Mycroft tries, desperately, to convey his sincerity.

“We’ll need an idea of what we’re facing,” she says, cautiously, after a few moments. “So I can assemble a team.”

Mycroft fumbles, for a moment, in the inside pocket of his jacket, then hands a folded sheaf of parchment across the table.

“And this is?”

“Lists of names. People I have witnessed conducting business with my father in order to subvert, avoid or corrupt the Ministry.”

She takes the list with a tilt of the head and a slight smile. “And you wrote this down?”

Mycroft swallows, and slowly nods.

“Isiah.” She passes the sheaf of parchment over. “If you would.”

Morrow scans each page, stands, and crosses to the fireplace. Before Mycroft can protest, the pages are consumed by the flames. Morrow grins slightly as he sits back down, watching Mycroft. “I have a good memory,” he says, wryly.

“The question is, Holmes,” says Tanezawa, calmly, “why shouldn’t we use this information as-is? Why do you think we need _you?”_

Mycroft swallows, mouth dry. _You expected the question, after all. Get this right._ “I have witnessed my father and his associates evade both Ministry censure and Wizarding justice many times,” he says, quietly. “My understanding was that one of the only ways for the Ministry to take action would be to witness some of the activities at first-hand.” No-one argues.

He blinks, and puts two fingers to his temple, where a dull, slow ache is blooming. “My father intends that I should succeed in the Ministry,” he says, flatly. “I do not wish to _succeed_ by his definition, or on his terms.” He presses his lips together. “I hope that the Legilimens is able to confirm it.” He is tired, suddenly, of it all: of being treated with cold suspicion. Only the thought of having to go home drives him on; the thought of having to guard himself, constantly, under his father’s watchful vigilance.

When he raises his eyes, McGonagall’s grey ones watch him with sympathy. “More tea, Holmes,” she says, taking the cup from his hands. He does not resist.

“You don’t want to go home for the summer,” says Tanezawa.

Mycroft’s eyes are drawn inexorably to hers. “No,” he says, tiredly.

She watches him, black gaze keen. “Hmm,” she says, after a few moments, turning to Morrow. They confer silently, gazes locked.

“I will find a Legilimens to see you this week,” says Morrow, at last, voice light.

Mycroft blinks, then nods. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Holmes,” says McGonagall, kindly. She indicates the door. “You will use the Floo network to travel. From my office.”

Mycroft stands, awkwardly, and crosses to the door. As he closes it behind him, Tanezawa’s appraising gaze is the last thing he sees.

*

“They do not trust me,” says Mycroft, quietly, in the dark.

Greg’s hand sweeps gentle arcs across Mycroft’s side and stomach. “It’s crap,” he mumbles, then sighs. “The fact you even met someone from inside the Ministry, though – Head of Internal Affairs – that’s got to mean something, right?”

Mycroft stares up at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in on him in different shades of shadow. “I – yes. I suppose so.”

Greg kisses his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Silence settles between them for a few moments.

“Are you going to be able to sleep?” asks Greg, lips brushing Mycroft’s shoulder again.

Mycroft presses his fingers into his eyes, attempting to resist the hot sting of tears. “I do not know.”

Greg pulls him close. _“Lumos,”_ he murmurs, and his wand glows softly on the bedside table, casting pools of light and hollows of shadow. Mycroft accepts the kiss, fighting back his weak urge to cry.

“Where’d you go, if you did a gap year?” smiles Greg.

Mycroft hesitates. “A gap year?”

He feels Greg’s fingers move lazily, on his hip. “Oh – like – kids do it, after school. Before – if they’re going to university. Travel, and work. See the world a bit.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but he is interested, despite himself. “Japan,” he says, at last. “There is a small island off the coast of Honshu that was an elf colony in the early twelfth century. Much of the architecture and cave structure is still intact, protected by magical law.”

Greg smiles. “Very you.”

Mycroft frowns. “I am me.”

“I know. I love you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “And you, Gregory? Where would you take a ‘gap year’?”

“Peru.”

“There _are_ some very interesting giant-formed mountain ranges –”

Greg laughs, sleepily, and curls more closely around Mycroft. “I want to go hiking in the rainforest,” he grins, kissing Mycroft’s collarbone. “But I’d spend the rest of it looking at mountains with you, if you come with me. Promise.”

Mycroft suppresses a yawn, and turns in Greg’s arms, settling himself as the small spoon. “I love you, _Grégoire,”_ he murmurs, tiredly.

The last thing he hears, as sleep takes him, is Greg’s whispered _“Nox,”_ bringing darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft presses his clammy palms together beneath the table. He swallows hard against insistent nausea. Not from the Floo travel, he assumes, unless Madam Pomfrey’s draught has ceased to work. _Nerves, then. Calm down. Get control. You will seem suspicious. Calm down. Calm down calm down calm down calm down_ –

The words have lost meaning, become just another accompaniment to his speeding, restless heartbeat.

The Legilimens’ long fingers are deft, arranging a notepad and pen on the table in front of him. Charcoal robes, and the hair at his temples is grey. His eyes, darting the occasional glance at Mycroft, are pale watercolour blue.

*

Before they had entered the room, Mycroft had been brought behind the two-way mirror.

“Recognise him?” Morrow had asked briefly, nodding to the unremarkable man sitting quietly at the table.

Mycroft had shaken his head, the cuff of his robes pleated tightly between the fingers of his right hand. “No.”

“Good.” Morrow did not smile. “Good to have a last check.” Mycroft had found himself ushered towards the door. “Let’s go then.”

*

_He – they – must be back there, now. Watching._ He swallows again.

“I understand that you have received Occlumency training.” The man has a slight Northern accent.

Mycroft nods. “Yes.”

“I’d ask you not to resist,” says the Legilimens, calmly. “It will make this easier for us both.”

Mycroft pulls his shoulders back, a substitute for the shrug he had almost given. Occlumency has never felt natural to Mycroft; his tutor had found him a poor student. He doubts that a Ministry Legilimens – more than likely to be naturally gifted, even before training – would find him a challenge, were he to resist. He nods, once.

“You understand what this test will comprise.” He speaks calmly, briskly.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, but the man’s eyes flick up and over his face. He obviously finds hesitation there.

“I have a broad remit to check your motivation in approaching the Ministry,” he says, businesslike. “I will attempt to access memories related to your family and their –” his first hesitation, mere fractions of a second, “– business activities.” He clears his throat. “Nevertheless, the process can be difficult to target. To control. Other memories may arise.”

Mycroft presses his palms flat against his thighs. “Yes.” He tries to stay as blank as possible. Dispassionate.

_Calm._

_Or an impression of it, anyway._

“We will begin,” says the Legilimens, quietly.

Mycroft takes a breath, and nods.

The double-tap at his temple is a courtesy, he knows – a skilled Legilimens can enter someone’s mind without being detected, or with only the barest wisp of sensation. Mycroft fights himself; fights the tightness in his throat, the strain in his chest, the instinctive stiffening of his posture, the drawing-up of his shoulders. _Let him in._

He holds his gaze wide, unblinking, on the Legilimens’ eyes, and gives way.

*

_The corridor outside the schoolroom. Mother still calls it the Nursery, but the nurse has left even Sherlock now. Neither of them particularly mourn her loss._

_Slow-burning, resentful anger lies bitter and heavy in Mycroft’s stomach. He wants to inflict a little pain on himself, to stop the black crawl of fury under his skin. Pull at his hair, or dig his nails so hard into the skin of his arm that tears spring to his eyes._

_The thought of the relief it would bring adds an additional, unbearable layer of sensation. Tears of rage prick behind his eyes._

_He daren’t. He knows that Ringold is still watching through the window of the schoolroom. The stone wall in front of him blurs with a film of hot, angry tears. He holds his eyes wide and swallows, again and again, against the lump in his throat._

_I can’t do it. I can’t keep him out. I can’t_ fucking _do it._

_He wants to scream, to let raw, ragged tearing in his throat match the fury echoing in his mind._

_What does he fucking want? I can’t fucking do it._

_The thoughts are too dangerous. His eyes blur and the tears threaten to spill; he cannot move his hand to wipe them away, or Ringold will know, will know that he has won, that he has succeeded in making Mycroft cry._

_I can do it. I can keep him the fuck out of my head._

_The problem is that it hurts; his temples are almost exploding with pain after an hour and a half of invasion after invasion. The wizard his Father hired to ensure that Mycroft learns Occlumency keeps a blank face – afraid, no doubt, of some unfavourable report finding its way back to Siger – but Mycroft can read in his eyes the smug pride in his own talents every time he breaks through._

_“Resist me,” he urges, time and again, breath sour as he leans close, watery swamp-green eyes heavy. Coffee on his breath, and Mycroft struggles to keep his face impassive, free of the skin-crawling disgust he feels as the wisping touch comes again at his temple._

_He stretches his eyes wider still, focusing on the tiny details of the stone in front of him, a small chip in the stonework, a pattern that looks like a face if you squint._

_Slowly, he beats back his urge to cry. He straightens his shoulders._

_Ringold will see, and soon he will open the door again, and call Mycroft back in for the remainder of his lesson, triumphant that his punishment has worked._

_Mycroft clenches his fists so hard that his fingers hurt. He wants them all to snap, to squeeze so tight that every tiny bone in his hand breaks, crumbles, turns to pulp and bloodied powder._

*

_Freezing cold works its way up into Mycroft’s soles through the flagstones. He stops, in the dark, fingers finding the cold stone wall for support, drawing stillness from it. He breathes silently, stomach tight with fear, adrenaline sudden and hot in his veins._

_“– too young,” finishes his mother, coldly. Her voice is full of chilly contempt._

_“Nonsense,” returns Siger, almost drawlingly. “He is far ahead of other wizards his age. His marks are exemplary. There will be no argument on the matter.”_

_“We do not need to court problems in this way. The Ministry does not need another excuse, Siger.”_

_“They certainly will not find out. Ringold owes me a favour, as does his brother. Neither of them would dare to make trouble for us.”_

_“He does not need it yet. No-one would –”_

_Siger’s voice is low. To anyone else, he might sound calm, unconcerned. “The sooner Mycroft learns, the better. I do not wish to discuss this further.”_

_Mycroft has heard that tone of voice many times. There is a long silence._

_“This is a mistake.”_

_“Enough.”_

_Mycroft takes a step back in the darkness, heart clenching at the soft pad of his footsteps on the flagstones –_

*

_The kitchen floor is stone, too, though less even; the flags at the threshold are worn smooth and low by the traffic of centuries, tradesmen and servants, coming and going –_

_“Come in then,” says Mrs Hudson, gesturing him in with hands covered in flour. “Stop lurking on the step. Sit,” she adds, returning to her task, rubbing in flour and butter for pastry._

_When he’s taken a seat on the stool in the corner, she turns to look at him, hands still working. “What is it tonight then?”_

_Mycroft half-shakes his head, as if he does not know. “A meeting.”_

_Father’s closest group of contacts within the Ministry, and their partners._

_She purses her lips, watching him with piercing eyes, but does not push for more. “Sherlock?” she asks._

_“In his room.”_

_She makes an exasperated noise under her breath. “And is he not to eat?”_

_“He will be down, I am sure.”_

_She nods, expression gentler. “Sick of the company?”_

_He looks down at the floor. “I cannot stay long,” he says, quietly._

_“There’s some lemonade in the fridge,” she returns, kindly. “Made it myself, earlier.”_

_He pours himself a glass, relishing the sour sweetness on his tongue. She gives him a tight smile as he sets the glass down by the sink._

_“Come back later,” she says, with a nod. “We’ll see what else we can do.”_

*

_His fingers are tight on the champagne glass. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tips of his black, shiny shoes._

_“Granger won’t last much longer,” says Varian Greengrass. His breathing is loud, stertorous; the large glass of port in his hand swirls dangerously with his sweeping gesture. “Can’t. No mandate. Mudblood. National disgrace.”_

_Mycroft keeps himself still and silent, in the corner, watching no-one openly._

_“Such are the times,” says Alka Shastri, eyebrow raised. “You would do best to accept it. Or to appear to.”_

_“Well at work – ’f’course –” he blusters, piggy eyes fixed on her from beneath drawn-down brows._

_“Yes,” she says, dismissively._

_Siger, leaning against the mantlepiece, watches their exchange with a sneer. Amusement dances in his eyes._

_The other guests look to Siger for what their reactions should be. Mycroft can see, in the proud, careful slouch of his form, how he loves to be watched._

_“Such, indeed, are the times, degenerate and disappointing though they may be,” he says, silkily. “Still. We have proven over and again that even unpropitious circumstances can be turned in our favour. Perhaps this outpouring of liberal sentiment can be used to our advantage.”_

_The champagne is bitter on Mycroft’s tongue, unpleasantly sour and flat, though it had burst readily enough from the bottle not long before._

_Shastri glances around, discreetly scanning the others’ expressions. “I heard from Morcott that they are establishing a new Internal Affairs department –”_

_“And how did she find out?”_

_“Through Queensbury, in Mysteries.”_

_Even Siger’s displeasure is elegant as he lounges against the mantlepiece. His long first finger taps impatiently against his glass. “We need more in Law Enforcement,” he snaps._

_“Bunch of bloody Gryffindors, isn’t it,” snorts Greengrass. “Loyal to the Mudblood. Led by Potter.”_

_“Yes,” says Siger, contempt curling his lip. “One thing worse than a Mudblood. A blood traitor.” He sips his whisky. “Even so. Even a Gryffindor may be – persuadable. Under the right influence.”_

_Mycroft’s chest feels tight with the pressure of silence. He does not move. He wants to fade into the background, to disappear quietly into nothing, to flee the nodding Ministry workers and sour champagne and slow, tortuous talk._

*

_“He doesn’t give a shit!” yells Sherlock, ten, and newly in possession of this swear word. “He thinks he can say, do, anything –”_

_Mycroft sighs, holding out a placating hand. “Just – do as he says, Sherlock. If you defy him, he is bound to retaliate.”_

_“Like you do?” snaps Sherlock, angrily. “You always do as he says.”_

_“Within reason,” says Mycroft, voice lowered._

_Sherlock gives a bitter little laugh. “Always.”_

_Mycroft does not push the point. “One year until you can come to Hogwarts with me, Sherlock. You must attempt to find some measure of balance until then.”_

_“How? When he refuses to listen?”_

_“He is our father! He does not believe that you – we – have the right to challenge him.”_

_Sherlock and Siger had once again clashed during the evening meal; this time over whether Sherlock should be forced to attend a formal dinner with some of the families most closely linked to their own._

_Sherlock had been defiantly angry as he slammed his way to his room. He has become steadily paler, eyes wide silver-blue. There is a catch in his breath and a downward quirk to his bottom lip._

_Mycroft does not know what else he can say to alleviate Sherlock’s anger. Tentatively, he sits on Sherlock’s bed and stretches out his arm._

_Their hugs are infrequent, now. They have always been a rare currency, in the Holmes household._

_Sherlock has lost his natural instinct to affection, just as Mycroft had. They both imbibed the message. Hugs are for children, babies who cannot regulate their emotions._

Do I reinforce the lesson, by only offering a hug when he is already upset? _wonders Mycroft, sadly._

_Mrs Hudson is still allowed to hug Sherlock, sometimes. Her hugs for Mycroft dwindled away as his father trusted him with more responsibility. She is kind, still, but not demonstrative. Her eyes are wary._

_Sherlock folds into Mycroft’s arms, rigid with the control it requires to cry in absolute silence._

_Mycroft attempts to ignore how wonderful it is simply to have some warmth, some physical comfort. He keeps his eyes fixed at the other side of the room, lest his brother need to look up, or find a tissue._

_“Would you like to walk down to the boundary?” asks Mycroft, after a while._

_“It’s not Thursday,” mutters Sherlock, voice thick._

_“She might still be there. It’s the right time.”_

_A Muggle woman walks a dog, a beautiful red setter, near the boundary every Thursday afternoon. There is no fence at the boundary, but she never crosses it, and neither do Sherlock and Mycroft. The dog comes to them, though, and the woman is kind: she lets them pat it._

_As they walk through the wood towards the boundary, Sherlock does not speak, sticking close by Mycroft’s side._

_*_

_“You can see the problem we face,” says Siger, splaying his hands before him. “Unless this suggestion is vetoed, there will be an inevitable increase in scrutiny. Something I am – keen to avoid.”_

_Mr Toddington blinks, several times. His slightly stooped shoulders draw down a little further. He clears his throat. “I – I am afraid I do not see how I can help, Mr Holmes.”_

_Mycroft looks down at the toes of his own black leather shoes. He attempts to fade into the background, not to be noticed at all. His father had brought him to the Ministry to update some documentation in the Administrative Registration Department, but as they left he had produced a pass from his robes and taken them through several more winding corridors. Eventually he had stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Luke Toddington, Registration Supervisor’._

_Siger smiles. “It would be much the same as the last occasion,” he says, with just the barest emphasis. “A simple matter of…delaying a little paperwork. Not losing it; merely – redirecting the attention of the Administration for a short while. Pushing forward other, more urgent, matters in its stead.”_

_Mr Toddington swallows, nervously. “I’m – afraid I can’t do that, Mr Holmes,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact. “I’ve received an urgent memo about it from the Minister’s office already, and it’s only been on my desk three days.”_

_Siger’s lips thin, his smile fading. “You were such a great help in the other matter, Mr Toddington,” he says, gently. “I had hoped that you might think the same as I – that we can be extremely useful to one another.”_

_Mr Toddington’s face is grey. He does not look up from the neat stack of paperwork on his desk. “I am sorry,” he says, through stiff, reluctant lips._

_Siger’s politeness is a grim pantomime. Mycroft wishes he could step any further back from the spectacle of it._

_“I hope that you are able to find a solution, Luke,” he murmurs. “It would be such a shame if Hetherington were to find out about your – role in our previous situation.” There is a long, nasty silence. “Keep me informed,” he adds, sweetly. “Good afternoon.”_

_As they walk away down the corridor, Siger murmurs to Mycroft, “spineless. Four children, hardly anything to live on. He’ll find a way. I am sure there are loopholes he can exploit. Always remember, if someone does something once, they will do it again.” Pleased with himself, he rests his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ll check with him in a couple of days. We’ll see.”_

_*_

As the Legilimens withdraws from his mind, Mycroft feels his own presence in his body with sudden, fierce intensity. The desperate grip of his hands, woven together under the table; they are cold. His shirt collar feels as if it may choke him. He swallows against it. Nausea sits, low and slick, in his stomach. He looks up.

The Legilimens is closing his notebook on two pages of scrawled notes.

“There must be more useful memories,” says Mycroft. His voice sounds odd, rasping. “Is there a way – can I try to – show you –”

“I see more than you do,” says the Legilimens, impersonally reassuring. “The memories you see as I search – they linger because you have a particular reference point within them. A strong connection. I pass on to others.”

Mycroft blinks. “Was there anything – useful?” he asks.

“I shall discuss with my colleagues. They will give you any feedback or follow-up.”

Mycroft nods. _Of course._ The Legilimency has made him slow and stupid. Nothing of the warm summer day from outside has penetrated into this grey, cold building. His fingers are like ice.

It cannot be the Ministry, or at least no part of it that Mycroft has ever seen before; the Floo had landed him in  a grey, featureless reception. He had expected to be underground, but through the rotating glass door he had seen an unremarkable Muggle street. London, or at least the colour of the buses had suggested it.

Morrow had collected him, briskly civil. Together they had walked through indistinguishable corridors to the small pair of rooms divided by a two-way mirror.

The Legilimens stands, and motions to the door. “Please,” he says. He nods as Mycroft leaves the room.

In the corridor, Morrow stands waiting.

“What happens now?” asks Mycroft, hating how unsure, how _young_ he sounds.

“That’s it for today,” returns Morrow, pleasantly. “We talk with Whitlow –” they nod back to the room Mycroft has left. “Find out where to go from here.”

_Whether I am to be trusted._

Mycroft nods, looking away down the corridor.

“Let’s go,” says Morrow, ushering him forward.

*

In McGonagall’s office, Mycroft stumbles from the fire, putting out a hand to the mantel to steady himself.

The headmistress’ gaze flicks over him, concern writing itself in the knot of her brow. “All went well?” she asks, briskly.

Mycroft tries to nod, swallowing down nausea. He hadn’t wanted to ask Morrow whether he could sit in reception for half an hour after taking the second travel draught. He had trusted that the first one would cover him enough.

McGonagall looks at him with piercing eyes. “Go and get some air, Holmes,” she says. “I shall contact you in the usual way when I hear from them.”

In the corridor, Mycroft presses his palm against the cold stone wall, and closes his eyes. He takes several deep breaths.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice. “Okay?” Greg doesn’t touch him, but he sounds worried.

“No time to take the draught,” mutters Mycroft, moving his lips as little as possible. “Feel sick.”

“Ugh,” groans Greg. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

Every step feels dragging, to Mycroft. He cannot shake off the memories. Parts of them recur to him as they walk, images which flick away into obscurity if he tries to examine them directly.

Greg opens the Room of Requirement for them, and Mycroft follows him without demur.

Greg puts his hands on Mycroft’s hips. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs. “You okay for a hug?”

Mycroft cannot seem to get his temperature right. He feels hot and sick and cold and unsteady. His head does not _ache,_ exactly, but it is heavy and sluggish. “Could I have some water?” he asks.

“Hang on.” Greg sits him gently on the edge of the bed. He rummages in his rucksack and takes out a bottle of water, passing it to Mycroft. “Here.” He sits on the bed and tucks his feet up under him.

Mycroft takes a gulp of water, waiting to see how it settles in his stomach. It helps. He had not been able to bear the idea of eating before he left.

Eventually, he puts the cap back on the water and places it neatly on the bedside table. He turns his back to Greg and takes off his robes and jacket, hanging them on a hook near the door. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes off each shoe, lining them up precisely before he pads back to the bed. He sits primly at its edge.

“C’mere,” says Greg, holding out his arms. “If you feel less shit.”

Only when Mycroft feels Greg’s arms slip around him does he realise how tense he has been; how he has been waiting for comfort of some kind. Greg pulls him down to lie on his chest, and starts to stroke his hand through Mycroft’s hair.

Nothing feels entirely real. The past nags insistently at him.

“Where was it?” asks Greg, softly.

Mycroft shakes his head slightly, pressing his cheek against the cotton softness of Greg’s t-shirt. “Not in the Ministry. Not – the building I have visited, anyway.”

Greg’s hand is gentle in Mycroft’s hair, and Mycroft’s skin feels too tight – he needs – fingernails and teeth, scratches and bites, pain and pain and _pain_ until he is gone, until he forgets the reality of himself –

He doesn’t meet Greg’s eyes. He kisses slowly down his side, teeth clenched, not wanting to betray how much he needs this, how much he needs to erase himself and the day that has gone before. He kneels between Greg’s legs, lifts his t-shirt, kisses his stomach; unbuckles his belt, his trousers, with shaking hands.

Bent over, like a prayer, hands tight in the fabric of Greg’s t-shirt. When he takes the head of Greg’s cock between his lips he feels his mind clear a little. He knows that he can be this one very simple thing, a thing to be used, to bring pleasure, without thinking, without scheming or planning or feeling or _being_ –

And Greg’s hands find his hair – _pull it, please, until this crawling ache under my skin stops_ – and then the sides of his head and Mycroft hears, at last, that he’s saying _stop, stop, Myc_ –

Mycroft wrenches himself away, and he wants to leave, to get up and leave this room and get as far away as possible but instead he curls into a ball, back to Greg, trying to disappear.

He hears a zip as Greg puts himself back together and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, but it’s gentle when all he wants is hurt.

“Myc,” says Greg, softly. “Myc – I wasn’t – but something wasn’t right – you’re not okay. I know it.” His right hand curves around the nape of Mycroft’s neck. “Tell me. Please.”

_I was back there today. I was all the kinds of nothing I have always been. I felt it all, again, and I have had enough._

Mycroft licks his lips, face pressed against the duvet, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. A long minute ticks by. “I just – need to –” he falls silent for a moment. “Not feel anything,” he adds, in a whisper.

Greg’s thumb caresses his neck. “And going down on me would achieve that?” he asks, with what Mycroft knows is a slightly ironic smile. All the same, he can hear the edge of hurt behind the words.

He presses his eyes further closed, pulls away an inch further from Greg. “It does not matter.” He hopes that they can stop talking about it.

“Matters to me,” says Greg, quietly. “You know that I – I need to understand this, right?”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Please, Gregory.”

Greg takes the hand off Mycroft’s side, but seems to hesitate before withdrawing the touch at his neck. “I –” he pauses for a moment. “No. I – actually, talk to me, please.” He shifts his hand, pulling Mycroft forcibly over onto his back.

Mycroft keeps his eyes closed, turns his head away. His heart hammers.

“Please,” says Greg, with more urgency. “You had a _shitty_ day, that’s clear, and it was all about poking in your memories, which means you have a lot of shitty memories. And that’s – I fucking _hate_ that. But this isn’t going to make today any better. I wanted to try and get you to talk about it, but I think that was wrong, and I need to understand what’s going on. Why.”

Mycroft flinches, pushing back the hot, painful tears that have threatened to come since the morning, hating his weakness.

Greg’s thumb, gentle on his cheekbone, breaks the spell. Tears pour from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, a terrible muffled howl of fury and grief in the back of his throat; he wants to turn away, curl in on it, but Greg won’t let him, pushes him down, is on top of him, heavy and warm, lips pressed to his temple.

Mycroft can’t say anything, can’t open his eyes or stop sobbing for a long time. His breathing hitches and shudders, even when the tears have stopped.

“’M’sorry,” he mutters, when he can.

Greg’s muffled outbreath sounds as though it’s punched out of him. His voice is unsteady when he says, “don’t. Myc.” He doesn’t seem to know what else to say. He works both arms under Mycroft, around him, and squeezes him close.

They breathe together, for a while, and Mycroft lets his own breathing match Greg’s. He concentrates on nothing else.

“I love you, so much,” murmurs Greg, against his temple. “D’you know that?”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, and blinks his wet eyelashes open. “Gregory – I –”

Greg rolls to the side, props his head up on his hand. He keeps his leg across Mycroft’s stomach, his right arm over his chest. “Hi, you,” he murmurs, smiling down into Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft runs his hand up Gregory’s arm. “I am sorry. For – before.”

Greg pushes his forehead against Mycroft’s, eyes deep and serious. “Can you tell me about – any of it?”

Slowly, Mycroft nods. “It was – the Legilimens went –” he brushes his temple with two fingers, swallowing hard. “He looked at my memories, but I didn’t see everything he did. I saw a few – business, with my father. Mostly.”

Greg pulls him onto his side, untucks Mycroft’s shirt and slips his hand inside it, gently caressing his back. The touch feels like heaven, now, and Mycroft realises that the screaming need to be _hurt_ has gone, that his skin is no longer too tight, crawling with the past and its ghosts.

He sighs, nestling his face against Greg’s neck.

“Did he see about us?” asks Greg, gently, into his hair.

“I don’t know,” murmurs Mycroft. “I didn’t. But he said he saw more.”

Greg kisses his ear. “And –” he hesitates. “Before – when –”

Mycroft winces, pushing his face more closely into the crook of Greg’s shoulder. “I did not mean – you do not make me feel – nothing,” he mutters. “I meant –” he can feel the heat of the blush flooding his face. “I wanted to be hurt,” he whispers, in a rush. “I wanted to be nothing.” He keeps his eyes screwed shut.

Greg moves back, and puts his hand on Mycroft’s face. “Open your eyes,” he says, steadily. “Please.”

Reluctantly, Mycroft does.

“You’re _everything,”_ he says, deliberately, holding Mycroft’s gaze. “When we – when we have sex, I want you to know that.” He gives a little huff of sad laughter. “And the rest of the time, too.” He tips Mycroft’s chin up. “Hey.”

“I know,” whispers Mycroft. “I am sorry.”

“No, I –” Greg kisses him, gently. “Don’t apologise, gorgeous. I just meant – I don’t want us having sex to be – I want you to feel good. Always.”

Mycroft nods, pressing close, breathing Greg in. “I know. I know.” He pushes his lips against Greg’s cheek. “I love you.”

Greg nuzzles their mouths together, soft kisses. “Shall we shower?” he asks. “Wash the day off.”

Mycroft nods. “Please.”


End file.
